The Tower
by sparticletam
Summary: In this adventure, Don and Charlie find themselves in the hands of an enemy—subjected to a form of ill treatment they never would have imagined—and fighting to keep up their spirits in light of an unbelievable demand for Charlie from one of their captors.
1. Chapter 1

**W/N: We got fic! _The Tower_ is complete. This will be posted in ten chapters and features Don and Charlie (in alternating POV's) and a couple of recurring OC. In this adventure, the brothers find themselves in the hands of an enemy—subjected to a form of ill treatment they never would have imagined—and fighting to keep up their spirits in light of an unbelievable demand for Charlie from one of their captors. **

**Dare I say…enjoy?**

_**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**_

_**The Tower**_

**Chapter One: _Prisoners_**

**---1---**

Charlie slept and Don guarded him, watched the door, listening for footsteps. Things were quiet for now. He turned to the old man in plaid who sat next to him on the floor, asked him how he'd come to be a prisoner in his own home.

The aged gentleman—named Fitzgerald after his uncle, he said—poked at an apple, scooping out a spoiled spot with a fingernail, and told Don he first wanted to know who this nutty fruitcake Reylott was, why he'd locked them up. He pointed to Charlie, asked why they'd hurt the young man.

Charlie mumbled and rolled to his side. Don leaned near, but couldn't make out what he'd said. He reached over the mattress—which was down on the floor—and picked up the sport jacket he'd laid over Charlie earlier, replacing it on his shoulders. Charlie's okay, just working off the sedative. _It'll be my turn again next,_ he thought, _how could I have been so wrong? _He stood, braving the soreness in his body from head to foot, and tried the door, found it locked solid like he had the previous hundred times. Going to the window, he opened the hinged panes, leaned into the 10-inch brownstone ledge, grabbed the iron bars and pulled. "Were these always here?"

Fitzy bit into the rotten apple. "No. Your friend Rey must've installed those. Maybe he's expecting burglars."

"Or the police," he said. "Funny. We call him Rey, too. But I think 'Satan' would fit him better." In the distance, mountains soared into tumbling thunderclouds gathering over the desert. "I thought he was dead. I screwed up. I told Charlie…" Don's mind trailed off. Below the tower, a car had driven up to the front entrance and parked beneath a long-dead tree. He took the old man's arm, helped him up so he could take a look. "They have a visitor."

"Good," Fitzy said. "It'll keep their minds off us."

"I doubt it."

Charlie stirred. With eyes closed, he crossed an arm over his chest, felt his shoulder.

Fitzy spit out a seed. "Your brother's feeling that needle."

"Yeah, poor guy." Don tried not to think about what they'd done to him, massaging his own back lightly. "Stings."

"So who's this Devil-Man?"

"Armen Reylott." He loitered by the window, observing. "I used to work with him."

"FBI?" Fitzy said, and lowered himself to the floor, below the window.

"Yeah…long time ago. But he got it on his brain that I'd lost his job for him, spent years stewing about it, building a grudge, then, about a year ago, he lost the rest of his sanity and followed me and Charlie into the woods and ambushed us. He burned down our cabin, chased us through the woods—nearly took us out with sniper fire. It was a game for him, a hunt, but we won. Unfortunately it ended with a shocker. Charlie had to shoot him in the chest to stop him, but he got away. All these months, I was sure he was ant-meat in the forest somewhere." He knelt near the mattress. "That's what I kept telling Charlie."

"Evil. How'd they get you here?"

"The hard way. We'd been to dinner at one of our usuals, little Italian hole-in-the-wall. I don't think it really mattered, the neighborhood—run down, you know, not the safest place at night. Rey probably would've found us even if we'd been in the newest part of town. We were headed back to my car, by an alley—walked past it lots of times. I was on the phone with the office, not paying attention, and Charlie fell behind. Least I thought so. Something felt wrong before I knew it. Instinct. From the corner of my eye I realized he wasn't there and when I turned, bam! Got hit with something." Don rubbed his head; there was a sizable bump at the back. "Don't remember anything after. Woke up in the room downstairs, with Charlie tied out on a table, half conscious."

"He wanted you to see what he was doing to your brother, didn't he? Bastard."

"Yeah. It's our luck Sick Satan's having power problems…" he said, "or we'd have more to worry about." He brushed Charlie's hair from his temple. The light had waned and it was getting difficult to see the bruises on his face. "I don't know where these came from. I think he fought them, when I was blacked out."

Fitzy patted Charlie's shoe a couple of times then finished his apple, core and all. "This isn't my house anymore. Sold the land, everything on it. I'm an architect—well, was when I was young—renovated and remodeled it myself."

"Come on, you're not so old," Don said. Fitzy's salt and pepper hair reminded him of his father's. By now, Alan would be frantic with worry, making phone calls. "Just because you don't go to work everyday…"

"You know, when my wife was alive I didn't care much about being a husband. Only thing I cared about was my work, my buildings. Now that's she's gone, all I want is to be a husband, don't care so much about being an architect."

Don said, "Our father's a widower, too."

"Then he and I will have tons to talk about."

"I think he'll like that." Don turned Charlie's head, found a scrape on his chin as if he'd fallen. "This is a cool house, like a castle—well, could be cool under different circumstances."

"It was owned by a movie star in the 30's. We added features to play out the theme. The masonry, shape of the windows. There's even a parapet over us, crenellations on the roof. Not a real castle, just a credible facsimile. I sold the property after Anne died. It's structurally unsound anyway, since the earthquake in '97. Rain's been doing the rest, crooked foundation. It should've been razed by now." Fitzy continued, told how he'd taken a clipping from his wife's cherished roses when he'd moved out, but the plant had died. The day before, he'd driven out to collect another clipping from the unoccupied house's overgrown garden—and found it occupied. "They grabbed me and tossed me up here. Didn't say nothing why."

"Now you know why. Wrong place…"

"Wrong time. Nice to meet you, Agent Eppes."

"Same here." Don felt a hand on his knee and grabbed it, wrapped his fingers round it tightly. Charlie had woken up.

**---2---**

Charlie's shoulder blade hurt—and his lip. One eye felt scratchy beneath the lid and his elbow throbbed. Don asked how he was and he tried to sit up, unsteady. Don began to fill him in, talking too fast, too crazy. What? We're where? Who? _Who?_ No. Not after all we've been through.

And it'd been less than twenty-four hours. Charlie could barely see the walls and Don warned him they'd be in complete blackness soon. He went onto explain that Reylott and his tattooing cronies had lost their electrical power, and, because of this favorable glitch in Rey's scheme, both he and Charlie had been spared from receiving the full treatment in one sitting. As long as their generator was inoperative, Reylott wouldn't be able to run his machine.

"What're you talking about?" Charlie said. He pulled his shirt collar aside, realized he'd misplaced his jacket somewhere and wore only his button-down—unbuttoned—and his T-shirt. Stretching to see, he made out a section of an outline on his shoulder blade, drawn in black ink. It stung, was tender. "Oh my God."

Don showed Charlie his own shoulder, said Reylott had possibly begun with him but hadn't completed it—perhaps changing his mind about something. Reylott had boasted that the Eppes brothers would always remember him, because they'd bear his personal mark of ownership engraved permanently on their backs. And, if they tried to erase the tattoos with the latest in laser technology, there would always be a creepy, ugly scar, exactly like the one they'd branded on his chest.

Charlie's hands were shaking. "He showed you his gunshot wound."

"I'm sorry," Don said. "I was sure he was dead."

Fitzy spoke from the shadows. "Don't blame yourself, Agent Don."

Startled, Charlie spun round as though a fly had buzzed him. He hadn't known there was anysone else in the room.

"This is Fitzgerald," Don said, and he let the old man repeat his part of the story. In the last rays of light, they discussed their predicament, guessing their captors would be sleeping and speculating what rooms they might be in according to Fitzy's recollection of the house.

In addition to Reylott, Don told Charlie he'd grappled with three other men: One he'd nicknamed Blue because he wore a muscle shirt with "The Blues" printed across the front in girly-glitter; and the second he called "Lipman" because his lips were so thin that Chap Stick would be useless. The third man seemed the most dangerous because he looked as though he could carry a planet on his shoulders—so Don had dubbed him "Atlas".

Charlie noticed broken skin and blood near his brother's ear and related that he remembered very little but did recall dinner and the initial part of their return walk to the car. His phone had rung and he'd slowed down behind Don, speaking to what he figured was a wrong number, insisting the female caller wanted a different Eppes, when he'd been snatched boldly into the littered alleyway. Next thing he knew, his feet left the ground, lifted by many hands, and a cloth was pressed in his face. His head thumped a layer of carpet while a sickly-sweet odor overpowered him. A blanket was thrown over his body; everything went dark. He struggled, pushed down, heart pounding, terrified. A ringing erupted in his ears, numbness crept into his limbs and soon there was nothing until the long table…the room with the tall pointed windows, stony walls and…

"I couldn't move," he said.

Near him, Don's voice emanated from the dimness. "Don't think about it."

"You were there."

"I think Fitzy's asleep. He's snoring."

Charlie lay down next to Don. He wasn't worried about the old man at the moment. "I saw you."

"You did?" Don said. "You were pretty groggy. They kept putting that stuff in your face."

"And you were yelling. They hit you." He thought about the table, the sweet scent under his nose. "What stuff?"

"I don't know exactly. My guess, chloroform by the smell. It's bad stuff." Don cleared his throat, changed the subject. "Their generator's probably out of fuel."

"How bad?"

Don shrugged it off. "Forget it."

Charlie insisted he explain.

"Okay. It's like any strong chemical, Ingested, inhaled, absorbed by your skin. Too much can kill you. Some people are allergic, get sick."

"That's weird."

"There's side effects. Fever's one." He paused, put a palm on Charlie's forehead. "Feel warm?"

He nudged the palm away. "I'm fine. Just tired." They stared at the ceiling and Charlie drew equations with a finger in midair, training his mind on something other than fear. "Damn it," he said, rolling towards Don. "Reylott's not done with us yet. Why?"

"I'm getting us out of here, Charlie. We have to act, and fast."

"Did he say what he's going to do with us? He wouldn't pursue this mania if he was going to kill us, right?"

"Right," Don said. "We're alive for a reason."

The room had blackened and stars loomed outside their window, over the house—the Orion constellation. They tried to sleep, thinking they wouldn't be able to fight back without rest, but couldn't rest. Instead, they sketched out scenarios, hushed, facing one another. If there were three of them and three of us, and if Fitzy had recalled the layout of the house correctly, the right direction to go for help, they might attempt to overpower them—yet a lot depended on how many men showed up to fetch them next time.

Charlie didn't feel hopeful. It was difficult to be hopeful in the dark. He did, however, know he could count on friends and family, who'd be searching for them. Everyone would be on the case, working tirelessly. If they didn't manage to escape, it was up to all three of them to hold out long enough to be found and rescued.

Don yawned, touched Charlie's forearm. "Try to sleep. I'm here."

"I will." Charlie said, reaching back. "You, too."

**---3---**

A light flickered in the cracks of the door and footsteps plowed up the stairs. The brothers lifted their heads, got up quickly and retreated to the opposite wall beside Fitzy, who remained seated, rubbing his eyes. Don reassured them, told them to stay calm, and follow his lead. Since Reylott wanted Don and Charlie each to see what would be done to the other, it was certain they'd take both brothers and leave Fitzy behind in the chamber. In this case, if they got away, Don promised Fitzy they would return for him with a virtual army. Fitzy said he could help, began to remind them about the house's hidden passages—when Reylott's people burst in.

Blue entered first, Lipman behind him. It was Lipman who did the binding, Blue who did the marking, and Atlas who held you still, often with a fist.

They had little time to react. While Blue stood guard with his hand on the doorknob, Lipman produced a handgun and Atlas charged in, seized Charlie by the arm. Don realized they were outnumbered and protested, told him to let his brother go, when Reylott stormed in and headed straight for Don, smacked him across the cheek and ordered him to shut up and do as he was told.

Charlie tried to pull away. "What do you want with us?"

"Want?" Reylott moved in, vis-à-vis Charlie. "You stupid boy. I thought you were smart. I'd like you dead most, but I won't let you die, I'd rather have you live. It's so much more fun that way. I need something to do, don't I? My life's ruined. No thanks to you, I survived."

Don swiped his lip, tasted blood. "You brought it on yourself," he shouted.

Reylott turned to him, fist in the air, and Don lunged, intent on toppling him. But before he could get to Rey, Blue and Lipman advanced and took him by the elbows, kept him back. From the corner, Fitzy yelled, "Leave him be," and Charlie echoed the plea as Atlas hauled him out the door.

Reylott's face was ruddy and tanned. A bit of loosened dust from the ceiling had sprinkled onto his head and he seemed to be on the verge of exploding into a fit. Don knew what was imminent and he scrunched away, anticipating the blow. The fist landed crisply on his jaw and he collapsed to the floor, knocked into a stupor.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_**  
**_


	2. Rag Dolls

**Chapter Two: _Rag Dolls_**

**---1--- **

Charlie's heels had been raised off the floor and he adjusted his feet to ease the strain on his wrists. It'd taken a punch to a kidney to persuade him to submit and while he was busy catching his breath, Atlas and Lipman had made a swift job of it. They'd crossed and tied his wrists then forced them up over his head, secured on an exposed rafter.

Left alone, he surveyed the room. There were two entrances: the one they'd come in which was an open archway and the other a plain door to his right. Below sanded shelves, bulky half-used candles that appeared to have burned throughout the night still glowed, set on waist-high counters lining three walls. He remembered the pointed windows, the hefty table in the center of the room and the machine beside it. Although he hadn't actually seen the machine, he couldn't forget its whining hum, the stinging sensation on his back or the glaring light he now could see came from a utility lamp jury-rigged on a rope and hung from a beam.

He stretched and grabbed the cord to pull himself up when Don was escorted in—rather dragged in like a rag doll. Atlas and Lipman dumped him to his side on the table and Blue walked in after them, carrying a plastic bag with neat, folded cloths. Reylott was conspicuous by his absence.

Charlie called out to him, struggling against the cords, begged him to wake up. Atlas ordered him to keep quiet or he'd be gagged then snatched up cheap pen lying on the table and threw it at him. Recoiling, Charlie closed his eyes, was hit on the stomach.

Don's hands were brought together and bound, the cord knotted beneath the table, with his feet nearest to Charlie, a meter away. They'd finished securing his ankles when he groaned and Blue warned the others he was coming around and selected a cloth from the bag, placed if over Don's nose and mouth.

Charlie panicked. "Don't," he said, the cord digging into his wrists. "You don't know what you're doing."

Atlas turned to him and pulled a knife from his belt, unfolded and waved it before Charlie's eyes. "The fun's only begun, professor," he said, and popped him in the ribs.

Charlie arched backwards though his reflexes told him he should bend forward to protect himself, but it was impossible. Atlas returned to the table, stuck the knifepoint into Don's shirt at the collar, cut a hole, and ripped it free with a few sharp slashes.

Blue exited and soon the sound of a generator roared from somewhere down the hallway. When he came back, Reylott trailed him and smiled over Don. Charlie recognized the smile, detested it. Numbness was beginning to take over his arms and hands and a knot formed in his gut. Anger consumed him—he could do nothing to help either of them.

"You can't do this," he said, addressing Rey. "Why? It won't change anything."

Reylott ignored him, tested Don's bindings.

Atlas hovered by the entryway. "Call me if you need help with loudmouth over there," he said, and disappeared, Lipman following like a loyal pet.

Blue, who sat on a stool, was preparing a stencil. The remainder of the image had to be outlined and transferred first, Charlie reasoned, before it was painted, pierced and made permanent—although there was no reason they should care a fiddler's fork about doing it right. He had to buy time for Don's sake and the only way he knew to accomplish this, hanging as he was on a rafter, was to provoke Reylott into a confrontation, slow things down. It wasn't hard to do; even if Don hadn't been on that table, he'd find holding his temper a challenge.

"Coward!" Charlie accused him with conviction. "You afraid of me now?" he said. "This the only way you can win? Take us prisoner, keep us like this? Guns? Four against two? Beating up an old man?"

Blue activated the machine and poked the needle into the skin on Don's upper right shoulder, silently began his rendering. Reylott watched, hands on his hips, told Blue to make it brighter than the one on the schoolboy.

"Quit calling me boy," Charlie said. "I'm more man than you." Nothing from Reylott.

Rey rapped Blue on the head. "If he starts to wake up," he said, "no more sedation. I want him to feel it."

Charlie raised his voice. "I don't hide in the corners of the world. I deal with it, something you obviously can't handle."

Reylott traced the perimeter of the table and studied Don, seemed to want to know if he was awake.

"Leave him alone. He never did anything to you."

"Sorry, old partner," he said, taking Don by the chin. "It's the bottom of the ninth."

"Don't touch him." He twisted and dust trickled from the rafter. "They're looking for us, Rey, they'll find us. You're going to spend the rest of your life in prison."

From a pocket, Reylott brought out a scrap of paper and asked Blue to add something special—the word traitor, in Latin: _proditor_

Charlie persisted. "I'm the one who shot you, you prick," he said, and watched Blue take a pen in hand, re-sketching the tattoo on a tablet. "Me. I won, don't you know? _I_ won. God, I wished you'd died." He bit his lip; he'd finally attracted his tormentor's interest, his wrath. Reylott cracked his knuckles, started towards him.

_I won._

Don let out a moan. "He's feeling it, boss," Blue said. "He'll be around in a minute or two."

Without looking back, Reylott said, "Good," and stepped behind Charlie.

_I really wish you'd died. _"Leave Don, it's me you want," he said, and scrunched up his eyes, expecting a punch, a kick, _pain_. Instead, Reylott's six-foot-three frame made it simple for him to weave a slender arm over Charlie's shoulder and wrap it round his neck.

Rey forced his head back, exhaling hot breaths in his ear, and whispered, "I can hardly wait to get you back on that table again."

Don expelled a woeful moan, moved slightly, and Rey tightened his choke-hold. Charlie tiptoed to compensate but the binding went taut, the rotted rafter creaking under the strain. He gasped for air, the cord pinching his wrists. _Is this it?_

Rey relaxed a second then re-squeezed, repositioned his stance. "See, I'm not dead, Charlie," he said. "Can you feel who I've become? How much stronger, tougher, for having lived?"

From below, Rey's knuckles drilled into the flesh at his ribs and chalky streaks flooded his eyesight, swirling like smoke. Rey would take him on a long journey, and there was no road home. _The light's gone, Don, do what you have to do…_

A shout erupted out of nowhere, suspending the swirling smoke: "Armen!" it said.

The choke-hold suddenly relaxed and Charlie revived, a rush of blood flowing up into his neck and ears. Reylott's arm stayed locked in place but the grayness subsided, lights turned on. Charlie stared at the ceiling, his ears ringing, feeling lightheaded, and prayed Rey would let him go. Somewhere out of view, a woman's voice demanded to be heard.

"Let him go," she said. "I've got plans for him."

Reylott slipped his arm out and stepped near the table, the woman at his heels. "Fuck," he said. "It's the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

"Be nice to me," she said, and glanced at Don, approached and stroked his hair. "I like this one." She turned to Charlie. "But you've got the brains."

Charlie sucked air, recovering, his side a steady throb, and watched Jacobi meow and paw over Don as though she were planning to exhibit him in a cage. Over a year ago, she'd maneuvered herself into Charlie's life and stolen his ID long enough to lift several thousand from his bank account. Despite Don's efforts to track her down, she'd vanished. The single most important piece of information the FBI had culled out of the many useless tips about her whereabouts was that she'd lost custody of her son John, aged four, and he was now in the legal custody of his paternal grandmother. Apparently, the family court judge thought wisely that a child should not have a fugitive for a mother—particularly when the boy's father was serving time.

Don had awakened and Blue stopped, began to clean his tools in the corner at one of the built-in counters. Jacobi kissed Don on the head and abandoned him for Charlie, tugging at his sleeve. "Can you get him down from there, I don't want him to get bent out of shape."

"Go home," Reylott said, checking out Blue's handiwork.

Don twisted, jerked the cords. "Untie me," he said, and lifted his head, seemed to be promising Charlie he wouldn't give up.

In return, Charlie acknowledged with a nod. "Jacobi…"

"It's Kat, call me Kat. Or Kathy." She tangled her manicured fingertips amongst his curls. "I hope these get passed on."

"Jacobi, please, you're not like your brother. Ask him to—"

She ignored him, flamed at Rey. "He's bleeding. Cut him down."

Charlie glanced up. His wrists bled, trickling into the cuffs.

Reylott asked Jacobi to leave them to their business, said he wasn't finished with the schoolboy and to stick to their agreement. He called her over, asked her to examine the handiwork on Don's back, bragging about his original design—a crown with the initials, W.A.R., Walter Armen Reylott, displayed across the center. Jacobi was apparently unimpressed and spent merely seconds inspecting it before she returned to Charlie.

At the stool, Blue had gone back to work and Don winced with each prick. The tattoo was becoming permanent. "Hold still," he said, holding the needle up. "I can't do it with him squiggling around."

"Eppes," Reylott said. "Stay still or your brother leaves forever. I'll bury him in the desert—alive."

Don looked up at him a moment, then complied. Blue resumed his task.

"Armen," Jacobi said. "Untie Charlie."

"Uh-uh. Me first, you second. It's taking longer than I thought it would. We had some power trouble. I want…"

Charlie watched, puzzled, as Reylott rushed out of the room and Jacobi—or should he call her Kathy?—chased after him. The machine and lamp were dead; the generator no longer grumbled. Blue shook the needle and set it aside, leaving the room as well.

"Are you okay?" Charlie said. They'd have a brief interval alone, no doubt.

Don fought with the bindings. "Let it be broke, let it be broke," he said, his words slurred. "Indefinitely. You?"

"Okay. I didn't know what to do. But I think, I think we might have a chance."

"Jacobi?" Don asked, flexing his hands.

Charlie's reply was interrupted. Atlas hurried in, snapped out his knife and cut him down, keeping his wrists tied together. Lipman snipped Don free and the brothers were herded back towards the tower chamber. Along the way, Charlie tried to memorize the pathway, estimating distances and noting architectural features as best he could with his weary, hungry mind.

Don had trouble walking, complained he was dizzy. Though his wrists were bound, Charlie supported his brother, wrapping his arms over his shoulders, instructing him to lean in. When they reached the stairwell, he heard shouting and saw that outside an alcove window, in the courtyard at the rear of the house, Rey and his sister were having a doozy of a family fight.

"Hurry up," Atlas said, flicking Charlie on the head. "Carry him if you have to."

Charlie tightened his hold. "Don? Can you hear me? Stairs," he said, and they trudged up, side by side.

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	3. Reaction

**Chapter Three: _Reaction_**

**---1---**

While Fitzy untied Charlie's hands, Don rested on the dirty mattress against the wall, scooting forward when he found it hurt his sensitive back, newly stained with Rey's stamp—fortunately still incomplete. He had a headache, a woozy feeling that wouldn't settle down. Several over-ripened apples sat in a row on the edge of the windowsill—the total sum of what they'd been given to eat. He'd been hungry before they'd drugged him, but had lost his appetite, longed for a drink of water.

Fitzy picked three apples from the sill and sat beside him, squinted to read the tattoo. "You all right, Agent Don?"

Don nodded weakly and Charlie answered for him. "He's okay," he said, and removed his overshirt, kneeled on the mattress and helped Don put it on, then laid Don's jacket over his legs. "Their generator's out again."

Fitzy offered Don an apple, his hands dotted with Charlie's blood. "So he doesn't mean to kill ya' outright, just tattoo you to death?"

A little grin crossed Charlie's face but Fitz was dead serious. "When he's done, I don't know. But he's got a sister—"

"The pretty gal I saw walkin' to and fro down there?"

"Probably," Don said, and bit his apple; it would have to do for thirst. "We should cover your wrists, Charlie."

Charlie raised his arms to the window light. "We have to get him, before he gets us."

Don let the apple's juice collect in his cheek, swallowed it before eating the pulp, rot-taste included. "I can't believe you're saying that. I'd just as well wish you wouldn't."

Out of his back pocket, Fitzy had pulled a handkerchief and torn it in half. He wound each piece round Charlie's wrists, tucked the ends in gently. Charlie thanked him, greedily bit an apple.

Don lay down, scratched his neck, heard a skittering sound from the corner. "Tell her you love her."

"She won't believe it, she's too savvy for that." Charlie had gotten up, stood at the window. Lightning quickened nearby. He stuck his arm out between the bars. "It's sprinkling."

Fitzy quit chomping mid-chew. "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh?" Don heard the scraping sound again, came up on his elbows. From the corner of the ceiling to his left, bits of stone poured from a crack and trickled to the floor, creating a tiny pile of debris. "There it is, listen."

"Uh-oh," Fitzy said, and got up. "We got trouble."

Don sat up. Charlie was shouting out the window, his face against the bars. "Up here, help!" he called, waving his arms, his belly on the brownstone ledge. "Help, we're here, we're—"

His next cry was brutally shortened. Atlas had rushed in and from behind, pinned Charlie's arms to his sides and lifted him off his feet, hauling him away from the window, a calloused palm clamped over his mouth.

On the mattress, Lipman buried his knee and the barrel of a gun into Don's chest, told him not to move. Fitzy drew back, going to the corner at Reylott's command.

At the window, Rey peered outside then closed the panes. "Bolt this shut," he said. "You'll need the drill. And you…" He poked his forefinger into Charlie's chest. "Are next. Get him down and prep him, but don't start till I get there."

Don felt the pressure lift off his chest and he was ordered to rise. He watched Charlie taken out the door, restrained in Atlas's vise-like bear hug. Lipman nudged Don forward and in the winding stairwell, Charlie was ungracefully half-carried and heaved down the deteriorating steps, just wide enough for one. It lacked a railing and several of the steps were in bad shape, crumbling in spots under their combined weights.

Atlas threw himself into his duty, twice bumped Charlie's knee on the rock-lined walls, evidently attempting to make space for his own broad shoulders to pass. Charlie folded up his leg and Atlas screamed for him to walk, swung him into the wall.

Don protested, told Atlas to let him down, stupid, he can't walk with you waving him around like that. Atlas responded boldly and banged Charlie against the wall, then, once they'd reached the bottom landing, he twisted round and backhanded Don without releasing his charge.

Charlie cried out, said he'd comply. He was taken onward through a passageway lined with the pointed windows and into their favorite room with the infamous machine. Atlas slammed him onto the heavy table and secured him the way Don had been bound while Don was trussed up the way Charlie had been: wrists pulled upwards and over the rafter.

Don's heels came off the floor. His face burned and perspired, felt faint. "Don't do this."

Blue prepared his equipment, back to the room. "Where's the boss?" he said, talking to Atlas. "Call him."

"Get him madder?" Atlas stood under the archway. "No way. Keep an eye on them. We'll be back, gotta' go find that drill." With a teasing slap to the side of Lipman's head, he and Lip departed.

Don tried to stay calm. "You all right, Charlie?"

"Y-Yes."

Blue appeared to be eavesdropping but returned to his work.

"Sure?" he said. "Don't be scared."

Charlie's voice wavered. "I can take it."

"We shouldn't have to." Don spoke up, pleaded with Blue: "What do you get out of this?"

Blue had been rummaging through a cardboard box. "Same as any job."

"Look, if you help us—"

"Don't even try," he said, and walked to the second door. "Stay here." He laughed to himself. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll be right outside."

"No, please." Don wiped his forehead on a sleeve, sweat in his eyes. "We can give you immunity if you'll just…can you get us some water?" Blue had disappeared and Don noticed Charlie eyeing him from the table. He seemed about to fall apart, but surprised him.

"Don't be scared," Charlie said. "David and the gang are probably outside the front door right now."

"Sure," Don said. "Ready to execute."

"We'll make the news again." He fought with the cords. "Ouch."

"Cut it out, you'll just hurt yourself."

Charlie quit fighting. "You're pale."

"I'm hot," Don said. "I don't feel so good."

"Fever?"

"That's my guess."

"Don—I saw a car, a sheriff's cruiser, I think, drive by on the road near the house. He might have looked towards us."

"Did he see you?"

"I don't know, I don't," Charlie said. "Too far. I'm sorry."

"Work on Jacobi," Don said, and tiptoed, curling his fingers round the cord attached to the rafter. He tugged and when he did, the ties constricted, bit into the side of his hand. Before giving up, he noticed the ceiling dripped in spots, leaving shallow puddles on the floor here and there, one under his shoes. Outside the windows, branches swayed in the wind and the rain had picked up, leaking through the sill base, creating snaking trails along the lower wall.

When Reylott arrived with Blue, Charlie wriggled under the needle and Rey threatened to sedate him. Don warned Charlie, told him it'd be wiser if he submitted to the request. Reylott glared at Don, evidently confused. What Rey didn't know was that Don feared Charlie might accidentally receive a lethal dose of the unpredictable chloroform. In fact, it was a pretty good guess his own symptoms were the result of exposure to the chemical. According to what he'd learned in training about the allergic reaction, his developing fever had the potential to soar to 104 degrees.

Charlie remained inert and Blue proceeded, smoothing color over his unwilling customer's right shoulder blade. The pain showed on Charlie's face but Don told himself his brother would survive, he'd get through it. He felt the room spin, closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and heard Charlie speak:

"They know you're here. The sheriff will be back."

Reylott had seated himself on the counter, swinging his legs, and was fooling with a butane gas lighter, flicking the flame on and off. "Why aren't you tame like your brother?"

"They're not only looking for us, they're looking for the old man. It's natural they'll investigate here, eventually."

Don opened his eyes. _No, Charlie, no…or Rey will take us away by the time they get here._

Rey jumped off the counter, making a little splash in a shallow drip-spot, and waved the lighter near Don's eyes. He clicked the red trigger, lit it. "Are you going to shut up, schoolboy?"

"Charlie," Don said, frustrated. "Do as he says."

"I want him to know." Charlie flinched, straightening his leg against the table as far as possible. "He can't fight all of us."

The flame grew brighter and Don pulled back, shifted his feet. "Shut up, damn it, just shut up."

Charlie seemed wounded and put down his head, his body going limp. He turned to the window, silenced.

_It has to be this way_, Don thought, _for his own good. _

Reylott flicked off the flame. "Some genius," he said, then misplaced his wicked smile with a frown. Jacobi had marched in, clutching a bloodied jacket, a scowl embedded in her features.

"Stop this," she ordered, motioning to Blue. She stuck the jacket into her brother's face. "What's this? I found it earlier."

"Go back to your flute, or whatever it is you waste time with."

"This is Charlie's, isn't it?" she said, pointing to the bloodstains. "Why can't I trust you? Oh yes, you're not trustworthy. I want to remind you, you wouldn't be alive nor would you be here carrying out this kooky scheme without me and my money!"

Don wondered: Were the Reylotts using Charlie's own money against him? The idea was ironic, and very wrong. He looked to Charlie, who listened passively. Blue had paused to refill his needle with ink and stepped aside, apparently preferring to avoid the family confrontation.

Reylott said, "You knew we might use force."

"Bruises, yes, bumps, but…you promised you'd keep your people under control." She laid her hand on Charlie's leg. "Release him. I need to talk to him."

Charlie raised his head. "I'd love to talk to you."

_Yes, yes, work on her, get her on your side._

The lamp over Charlie's head flickered and Blue advised Reylott they were low on power again.

"What the hell? Piece of crap." He kicked the table leg. "Talk to him, woman, now's your chance. You," he said to Blue, "call in the troops, get super agent back to his suite."

**---2---**

Charlie was left alone with Jacobi and he quickly made a request: to be set loose. The snug cords had rubbed aside the makeshift bandages, irritating his wrists. His shoulder was sore, knee aching, mouth dry as the desert usually was in summertime.

Jacobi agreed to free his arms but refused to untie his legs which told him she was a little afraid of him. When he sat up to free his legs for himself, Atlas popped his head in from the hallway and warned him not to unless he needed a lesson in who's boss. Charlie stood down, figured it wasn't worth the battle. As Jacobi paced, he soothed his bare shoulder, then slipped his T-shirt back on. The place was dank, musty. The rainstorm had gained momentum and winds swept the limbs of bushes and brush across the windows, thunder booming nearby.

She paced first to a counter then back to the table, circling it. The jacket was tucked under her armpit and her low boots created narrow footprints on the dry areas of the floor. She complained, her full skirt flowing in rhythm with each determined step, and told Charlie he owed her for preventing her from being with what she loved most.

Charlie kept cool; he would become the ideal listener to gain her favor despite his urge to ream her for stealing from him, and for this.

She said she missed her son John, but had lost custody of him and could never get him back. He's lost to me forever because that bitchy mother-in-law of mine has turned him against his own mother; thanks to the constant manhunt on my life, your brother's FBI hounding me, always hounding me, I don't have a chance of getting John back. You and your brother have wrecked everything. You owe me, Charlie. You'll pay me back what I've lost.

Charlie, who'd been leaning back on his hands, sat forward, contemplating what she meant. He asked her for water and she tossed the jacket in his lap and grabbed a bottle from a paper bag on the shelf. He accepted it slowly, wouldn't allow her to see how desperately he needed the drink but gave himself away when he emptied it in a few long gulps.

Jacobi frowned, said Armen had lied about feeding and watering his prisoners, that she'd reconsidered why Charlie had shot him, concluded that sometimes Armen brought these things upon himself.

_No kidding._

You'll provide me with a new kid, Charlie, she added, as if she were talking about the weather; I want him to have your brains.

_Hell on fire. _He couldn't believe what she'd said._ Play along, _he thought,_ Don would say humor her. "_Jacobi, I'm flattered, but that would take months," he said._ Sure, I'll just dole out my genes like M-n-M's. _

She told him he would be freed as soon as blood tests confirmed she'd conceived, as little as a week after.

_How would she manage that, her own private lab? He didn't put it past her._

We can start now, she said, and stuck her head out the archway, telling Altas she'd be fine before digging her fingers into a grove on the right side of the arch, attempting to slide out a fitted pocket door. When the door wouldn't budge, she tried the left and it slid out halfway then jammed.

"Cranky old trash", she said. "That'll have to do."

He was taken aback, nervous. She was in a hurry. "Here?" he said. "Now? With you?"

She untied his left ankle and he gladly let it drop over the side to restore circulation.

_I will not be manipulated—No, play along. _"This won't work," he said. She was taking off her sweater. "You can't force a man to—"

She'd come near, kissed him on the cheek. He felt disgust. Beautiful as she was, the thought of making love to her made his stomach flip-flop. Her outrageous demand had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with her narcissistic nature. A baby? More likely she wanted to own him, take him like an object for her own gain, her own pleasure.

She cradled his head and pressed her lips to his, each time a little faster, and Charlie allowed it, kissed back. It felt good. Her lips were soft; she smelled pleasant and inviting and in this horrible place, she was tempting comfort, a delicious relief from everything they'd been going through, from the beatings and pain and starvation and the machine and the needle and…yes_…._

In one easy lift, she climbed on the table over his thighs and encouraged him to lie down. When he did, she bundled the jacket and placed it under his head for a pillow. Charlie felt dazed, the aches in his body muted or fading. She kissed him again and slid her hand from his chest then south, under the folds of her skirt to his hips, fingers prying between his legs.

He sprung up on an elbow, pushed her away. "I can't…" he said, in pain, "my knee." And he told the truth: His bashed limb could not withstand her weight. She jumped off and he tended to his leg, knowing he couldn't do it, couldn't muster any real attraction for this woman. Whether it was because he was too dehydrated or hungry or angry didn't matter; he didn't want to be exploited as the subject of Jacobi's personal eugenics project. But he couldn't let her know that.

"I'm sorry," he said, putting on a mask of sincerity. "I don't have my usual strength. If we could postpone this?"

"What's wrong with your knee?"

"Your friend out in the hallway there."

"That son-of-a…." she said, when her tone changed for the worse. "You're trying to fool me. I'm going to remind you, you have a brother upstairs who looked very sick last I saw him."

He was alarmed. "Is Don okay? He all right?"

"I can make things better for him," she said, and her temper flared. "If you'll stop lying and cooperate with me!"

Charlie apologized, showed her his black-n-bluing knee, told her he'd been drugged and hadn't had any sleep or anything to eat except an apple for over a day. How could any man perform under those conditions?

Without replying, she fitfully attempted to slide back the pocket door, failed and called for Atlas, dismissing Charlie like a wayward servant. Limping, Charlie pulled on his jacket. On the way back to the tower, he insisted he needed to relieve himself whereupon Atlas detoured reluctantly, taking him to a massive overgrowth of brush in the courtyard, under the eaves. While there, Charlie took in the layout of the house, could see the parapet walkway Fitzy had been talking about and another, shorter, squarish tower at the other end, with whimsical feline gargoyles smiling down on him like Cheshire cats out flying blissfully. There were stone stairs on the outside, too, leading up the second floor, and the walkway. Around him, in the small courtyard and along the path, large pools of rainwater had begun to accumulate.

The stairwell challenged him and he climbed guardedly, with Atlas as impatient as ever. He hurried Charlie forward, knocking him onto his knee several times. When they finally reached the chamber door, Atlas socked him bluntly between his shoulder blades and he was propelled through the doorway, tumbling to the floor.

He held his knee, looked up. Don and Fitzy weren't there.

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	4. Compromise

**Chapter Four: _Compromise_**

---1---

"Where were you?" Charlie was fretful, had trouble getting up. "You're both soaking wet."

"Stay there, son," Fitzy said, and the chamber door slammed shut, locked behind them. "Your brother's ill." He led Don to the mattress. "I begged them to let us take a leak. Looks like they were busy while we were out."

Don looked up. The room was gloomy and he realized that Reylott's men had bolted boards over the window to prevent further mischief. Luckily, through the spaces between them, sunlight managed to sneak in, sparing them from complete darkness. He relaxed and gave his eyes a break, welcomed the respite. His head pounded yet the trip outside had been soothing in more ways than one: The rain was chilly, cooling his feverish body, and he'd captured drops of it for his thirst, craving a bucketful.

Tending to him, Charlie placed a hand on his forehead. Don cracked his eyes open slightly and glanced at Fitzy, who was walking around the room, and assured Charlie he'd be fine, the fever would subside on its own.

Charlie wasn't convinced. "Not if they drug you again, Don," he said. "It could kill you. I won't chance that." He went on to explain what had happened with Jacobi, her ridiculous scheme to conceive a child prodigy with him and the failed first attempt. "But I'm going to make a deal with her—in exchange for letting you and Fitzy go."

"No deal." Don forced himself to focus. He ached all over. "Tell her no."

"You said to work on her, that's what I'm doing."

"Changed my mind. She's whacko. How…" He swallowed deliberately, a shiver in his spine. "How long? She could keep you for months, and…and no guarantee Rey releases us, or does away with us. You wouldn't know."

Charlie removed his jacket, arranged it over Don. "Fifty percent."

From the corner, Fitzy asked what percent.

"Possibility of conceiving a child in four months. Ninety percent in a year."

"In that case or any case," Fitzy said. "Forget it. I don't like being locked up and I wouldn't like being forced into slavery, no matter how pretty a gal is."

"I don't either," Charlie said. "It's humiliating."

Don coughed, his stomach growling. "You're not gonna' do it."

"I'll never forget when we first met, she was charmer."

"Don't get sucked in, Charlie, it was an act," he said. "Stall her." Don was apprehensive. Charlie could stall for time by giving Jacobi exactly what she wanted, over and over again. "As soon as you cooperate, she or Reylott can take you away from us. Don't give her anything, especially your DNA."

Charlie acquiesced. "Of course, you're right. Rey's the unpredictable factor." He stretched his shirt to wipe Don's face. "Under that kind of stress, not knowing what'll happen…a child would be the last thing on my mind."

Don sighed. He was getting hotter, wished for a breeze to bring fresh air into the fusty room. Even with damp clothes, the drafts he'd felt before were no longer sufficient. And he worried. Would Charlie follow his orders or act independently to save him? Charlie wasn't under his command, on his team, and he seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for Jacobi, as though he believed he could turn her from her evil ways. He rolled to his side, groggy, and the room seemed to lurch when he lifted his head. "Promise me…" he whispered. "Charlie?"

"I'm here. Shhhh…quiet, rest. It's getting dark."

Fitzy extended his arm up to the growing hole in the ceiling but couldn't reach. On the floor, the pile of debris had grown wider and rainwater collected in the southern end of the room.

"Promise," Don said, squeezing his eyelids to halt the lurching walls. "You won't compromise."

"I promise." Charlie covered him again. "Don't talk. Sleep."

Don tried to, but dozed, tossing and then regretting it when it made him dizzier. Over the thunder, he listened to Fitzy on and off, his voice filtered in and out with the noise. The old gentleman sat at the end of the mattress near Charlie and when Don opened his eyes, the sight was eerie. The powerful storm had arrived in torrents and lightning flicked through the cracks in the boards, flashing across their faces. Charlie and Fitzy became unrecognizable.

Fitz fretted, explained about the rain: You don't have to be an architect or a mathematician like you, Dr. Charlie, to understand how much water an old building like this can take, he said; I'm upset about the leakage in here—the water pools there because of the sinking foundation. I'm afraid the whole ceiling's going to collapse, or the floor—the whole damned thing.

The mattress shook and shifted and Don realized Charlie and Fitzy were dragging it to the wall, away from the south end. When he awakened, it was dawn and Charlie sat beside him, drinking bottled water and eating a bread roll.

"Don," he said, excited. "Water."

He took a deep breath and scrunched aside the jackets covering him while Charlie came up from behind, propped him up against his shoulder, and Fitzy assisted with the water. Don sipped carefully; his muscles were stiff and achy. He felt neither better nor worse but ate, holding a roll with one hand and Charlie's forearm with the other.

The respite was short-lived. Within the half-hour the door swung open and Reylott towered over the three of them, his band of monkeys at his beck and call.

---2---

"Your turn, Eppes," Reylott said, and ordered his minions to seize Don.

Charlie hung onto his brother, wouldn't let go. "You can't, he's sick."

Reylott delayed his order, knelt on one knee, examining Don's face. "You're well enough to eat," he said, and stood, waved on his men.

They charged forward and Charlie tightened his grip over Don's chest. Atlas growled, raised his fist as if to smack him but instead grabbed Charlie's hair and eased a knife across the surface of his neck, telling him if he didn't let go, he'd cut Don away from him, piece by piece.

Charlie held his ground. _He's bluffing._ "Rey," he said, careful of the blade. "I want to see Jacobi."

Rey laughed, took a pistol out from the small of his back. "I'll bet you do," he said. "No. I have a job to finish."

As soon as Atlas released Charlie, Don was wrenched from his arms and taken away, supported between Blue and Lipman. On his way out, at gunpoint, Charlie glanced back, gave a thumbs up to Fitzy and in a few minutes found himself in the despised room downstairs. Don, who was lethargic, seemed to have little fight in him and was dropped to the table without a fuss.

Charlie's hands had just been tied together when Rey ordered Atlas to escort him into the hallway. There, Jacobi led him through a swinging door to a larger room that appeared to have been the kitchen. There was a work-island in the middle; a sink, counters and pantry; greasy lines on the floor where a stove had been; and a dumbwaiter in the water-stained wall. Near the island, Charlie was instructed to take a seat in a weathered chair and Atlas secured him to it, stringing a rope over his chest.

When he was done, Atlas guarded the door while Jacobi leaned against a counter with arms crossed, staring at Charlie.

"Are you feeling better?" she said.

_Why do you care? _"I'm concerned about Don," he said. "Don't let them sedate him anymore, it's killing him."

"What're you talking about? I thought he had the flu."

_How could someone so smart be so dumb? _He curbed his indignation. "No. He's having an allergic reaction to the sedative your brother's using. If he's exposed to it again, he could die."

"I see. And what about me? What will you do for me if I talk to Rey, make sure he doesn't accidentally knock off your brother?"

Charlie heard Don in his mind: _Promise me you won't compromise. There's no guarantee Reylott will release us. You won't know, Charlie, she'll take you away, keep you for months, years…_

_Forgive me, Don, I have to break my promise. _"I'll stay with you, until you have what you want," he told her. "I'll cooperate."

A smirk crept across Jacobi's lips and she left the room without another word. In the dimness, Charlie waited, listening to the relentless rain-patter on the roof, and wondered if he could perform for her under duress, so much stress. It wasn't natural, the way it was meant to be between a man and a woman.

He took inventory: banged-up knee, bumps on the head, bruises and abrasions, a splitting side, and the ugly tattoo, still incomplete, thank God. Did Reylott intend to stop with one or continue to disfigure them, needle after needle? And to think, people paid to have them done. It almost made him smile: He was getting his at no cost—well, not the cost of money, anyway.

The ropes hampered his breathing, crossing beneath his armpits and around the chair's slat. He inhaled deeply but his chest expanded only so far, then constricted. With his thumbs, he dug under the ropes, trying to loosen them, but was unsuccessful.

The door swung open and Jacobi bounded back in, her expression resembling those of the feline gargoyles on the roof. She came straight to him, straddled his lap, sandwiching his head between her palms. "As soon as Rey's done, we're out of here."

_No…it's just what Don feared. _"Why can't we stay here?"

"I hate it, it's a dump. And out there it's dry and depressing most of the time." She nestled his hand in hers. "Then there's this god-awful rain."

"And Don? The old man?"

"You can't have everything, Charlie," she said. "But you can have me. You're looking stronger."

She was revving up. _And to think I once desired her—when she pretended to be someone else. The kind student who played the flute, baked cookies and grieved for her dead mother. _

"Actually," he said. "I was awake all night, taking care of Don. I'm beat."

Jacobi said, "Cooperate, I'm sure I heard you say cooperate."

He kept his wrists close to his chest. "And there's my knee."

"You'll forget your knee," she said, and tucked a lock of his hair behind an ear.

Charlie redirected the subject, bringing up one more immediate. "Can you ask your brother to stop the tattoos?"

"He won't till they're done. I guarantee you that. Some things he won't even talk about. You're lucky I got him to agree about the sedative." She proceeded brazenly, grazing his neck with lively kisses, her hand fumbling for his belt.

He leaned back as far as possible, fingers shrinking away from her unavoidable breasts. "There's no privacy. I need privacy."

She inched the belt from the buckle. "I've given the boys instructions."

Her caresses were pleasurable, infusing him with anticipation and agitation at the same time. "I can't do it tied up like this."

"Sure you can," she said, slipping the belt from the buckle. "What we need is free as a bird, once I get you undone. Relax, I'll do all the work."

There was a part of him that wanted to give in and continue to stall her, another that wanted to tell her to go practice her flute. Despite his objections, he found his body reacting to her bait though he preferred it stay impartial. _I'm set on automatic_, he thought. In this case, he was a poorly designed system which would complicate everything, not make it easier.

She'd unzipped his pants.

_I'm supposed to stall her, not satisfy her. _He was about to tell her he was on the verge of throwing up when someone shouted outside the swinging door. A man had cried out "no"several times, followed by a crash like metal on stone, a scuffle of footsteps and another voice apparently in charge, barking out, "Get him!"

For Charlie, the first man who'd yelled sounded a lot like Don. He pushed her away, stuck an elbow in her face. "Get off me!" he said, squirming under her. "I have to go to him."

Jacobi seemed surprised and broke off her seductive ploys, brushing her skirt back over her thighs. Charlie pleaded with her to untie him, struggled with the bindings. Instead, she zipped up his pants and hopped off his lap, running out of the room.

The scuffle outside continued and Charlie grew fierce, jerked forward, wrestling with the rope. The chair started to rock and he righted himself awkwardly but toppled over, heard a crack. Bracing his feet on the counter and pressing against the island, he pushed and tugged until the chair gave way; he'd busted the slat. Getting up, he bolted through the doors, ropes dangling, and down the hall to the machine room, rushing past Atlas and Lipman near the archway. There, Don lay sprawled on his back on the floor, Jacobi beside him.

Charlie went to him. "What did you do?" he said, feeling for a pulse. "What's wrong with him?" Don's nose bled, his face suffused with fever, but he moved his head from side to side, seemed to be regaining consciousness—or trying to.

Jacobi got up, stood over them. "He'll be all right, Charlie."

Reylott showed up at the entryway in a raincoat and hurled out a command: "Get the schoolboy out of here and into the truck. In the back. And keep him quiet for God's sake."

The odor was unmistakable. _Disgustingly sweet. _

Atlas and Lipman took hold of Charlie's arms, wrested him away from Don, but he resisted, refused to walk. He yelled at Jacobi, asking her why they'd used the drug on his brother again. "Why should I go with you? You're killing him," he said. "You lied—you're a sick woman!"

"Shut up, Charlie," Jacobi said, her eyes like a wildcat's. "You don't have a choice. I got you food, water, told Rey about Don. Now you're coming with me."

_Witch. She expects a lot for a damned bread roll._ "I won't be your project, you can't make—"

His back slammed the floor and several arms flattened him there, legs pinned in place. Faces zipped by in blurs and a vile, familiar stench swiftly descended over his mouth and he thought he would suffocate, tried to turn away. The cloth was warm and soft but he had to breathe in with both mouth and nose to ease the panic of never breathing again. The ceiling swirled; Atlas's eyes bore down on him. They lacked pity, prowled expectantly like a predator's, waiting for the chemical to take effect.

Over seconds, or minutes, the swirling slowed and everything stood fast, static as a photograph. Atlas's grin froze into place and silence replaced the grumble of the generator, the din of wind gusts and driving raindrops. He inhaled; it was easy now, the stench a distant phantom. Overhead, the rafter seemed far off, a hundred feet higher than where it had been. The tension departed from his shoulders, his legs, and he could barely keep his eyes open. A touch skimmed his face and a disembodied voice floated in the space over him.

_Close your eyes, Charlie, _it said, _let it happen_. And he did

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	5. Crash

**Chapter Five: _Crash_**

**---1---**

An important part of his life was missing. Don's awareness of this was evident even before he regained his senses, when his eyes were still clamped shut with fever and the soreness in his arms and legs made moving painful; before the cold and damp and darkness closed in and Fitzy's sudden voice scared the hell out of him. It's just something he knew—like when Charlie had been snatched into the alleyway.

_I'm alone. _He wasn't really, but it seemed that way. Fitzy kept vigil over him, sleepy and haggard. Echoes of steady dripping filled the room and the smell of dust permeated the air. A horrible sensation enveloped him. What does Reylott have in store for you, Charlie?

_Hold it together, Eppes, this isn't going to help. _

Come on, team. Megan, Colby, David—where on earth are you guys? You should've been here yesterday, last week, last year. I've taught you all I know, now use it.

Fitzy didn't wait until he asked about Charlie; the elder gent seemed to predict that Don would want to know about his brother as soon as he awakened. "They brought you back in here out cold," he said, "and I asked them about Charlie. That big one punched me in the chest and told me it was none of my business. I warned 'em about the ceiling, how it's about ready to cave. They took a look at it then left. I suppose they'll consult with the devil on that." He wiped Don's temples with a torn piece of his plaid shirt, asked if he wanted water.

"I remember some of it," Don said. "Charlie's voice. Yelling." In the dim light, he inspected his hands. A short section of cord swung from his wrist and there were red blotches on his knuckles. "They pinned him to the floor next to me. I heard muffled noises…felt like a long time. After that, I'm blank."

Fitzy supported his head, helped him drink. "They drugged you?"

"No." Don folded up a leg, gripped the edge of the mattress. "I freaked. They were about to make me part of the table again when I saw Charlie was gone. I kicked the tattoo guy and he fell into the machine. When it went over I was off the table, out the door. Didn't get far."

"They clobbered you."

"Yeah, that too, but…I don't think that's what did it." He tried to sit up, felt drained and lay back. "Think I fainted. Hit me all at once."

"I'm sorry they took your brother, Agent Don. He'll be all right. The Bureau always gets their man."

Don smiled. _Always get our man. _There were plenty of fugitives at large to contradict that myth yet in this case, he believed it—he had to. Reylott would be caught; Charlie rescued. "Thanks. I'm counting on Charlie to be all right."

"Are you any better?"

"A little." _Not really_. "Feel less hot but my head's pounding, and…I feel weak."

"Weak as a kitten we used to say."

"My dad says that, too." He covered his face, took a careful breath. "What must Dad be going through right now?" he said. _What'll I tell him? I'm the one who watches out for Charlie_.

Fitzy was oddly quiet and Don glanced over, noticed he was standing under the hole in the ceiling. Although by mid-morning most of the thunder and lightning had dissipated, showers had beat relentlessly the rest of the day, leaking through the tower's roof and into the chamber.

Don sat up, let his dizziness even-out before scanning his surroundings. The sunlight was minimal but he realized that the puddle on the south end had tripled in size and flat chunks of ceiling plaster-rock had either broken, were about to break or already littered the floor.

"Uh-oh," Don said, and a crack near the leak-hole expanded, zigzagging in several directions. Sections of the ceiling began to fall and rainwater gushed in, wind whistling through the beams.

Fitzy hurried to the opposite corner next to Don and explained that the water-rush came from the sloped roof. "We gotta' get out of here," he said, and got Don up. Together, they pounded the door, demanded to be let out.

Behind them, a thin continual stream had formed and the water puddled beneath their feet, spreading out under the door. Don wiped water from his eyes, feeling as though his legs would give out any second.

Finally, the door opened and Blue grabbed Fitzy by the arm, tossed him forward onto the steps and straight into Lipman, who stuck a gun in his spine. Don followed voluntarily but as he came out, Reylott grabbed him by the neck and jabbed a gun in his ribs.

"Behave yourself," he said, his voice blaring out over the noise. "Or this is your last night out." He took the lead, flashlight in hand, and allowed Blue and Lipman to bring up the rear, with Don and Fitzy between them. The stairs were slippery and fragments of the stone had fallen apart, getting in the way underfoot.

Don stepped carefully. Farthest back, Blue also carried a flashlight but it wasn't enough to illuminate the entire stairwell, particularly where it turned. About halfway down, accompanied by the creak and clatter of breaking stone, Reylott's body dropped from Don's field of vision and he reacted instantly, grabbed Lipman's weapon and engaged him in a tug-of-war.

While they wrestled in the tight space, Fitzy lifted a broken shard of stone from the steps, slipping his thin frame past Don before Blue could get to them. Raising the shard high, he belted Blue over the head and he collapsed, dropped the flashlight. Fitzy snatched up the light then turned to Don who'd caught Lipman in a choke-hold but was losing the battle. Using the flashlight, Fitzy whacked Lipman over the head and he succumbed, buckling to the stairs, dazed.

From the step below, Don claimed the gun, fallen from Lipman's grip. He motioned for Fitz to come downstairs with him when Fitzy waved him back up the steps, telling him he knew a way out. Don hesitated but followed, watching their backs, figuring the old man had lived in the place and would know it better than Reylott, who, accompanied by his minions, would certainly regroup from his tumble down the stairs and show up any second, livid and determined to catch up with them.

**---2---**

In a fuzzy plane between sedation and alertness, Charlie had learned that a leaking hose in a truck had delayed Jacobi's getaway from the house. While Atlas had informed her that he would try and patch it up, Charlie had been abandoned on the kitchen floor near the sink, his worn-out wrists still bound. Twice, they'd covered his face with the cloth to prevent him from waking completely but the third time he got wise, and, as he began to shake off the drowsiness, reminded himself to play dead to avoid another dose.

The drug upset his stomach, complicating his ability to shrug off the dulling effects. When Atlas came to fetch him, he could think only slowly, with deliberate care. It didn't make a whole lot of difference how well he could think, however, because his goal was simple: to get his sluggish body running, to escape. Deftly, the strongman picked him up onto his shoulder like a fireman would and carried him out, dumped him into the cab floor of a four-by-four which had had its seats removed. Jacobi drove and from his lowly place of honor, Charlie peeked upward, listening to Atlas make phone calls and eat something that sounded like potato chips.

They'd driven for what Charlie estimated was about ten minutes—although he really couldn't trust his senses—when the swish of the windshield wipers ceased and Jacobi and Atlas entered into a terse discussion. Because he'd been in and out of awareness, the details of the fight eluded him but it appeared to have something to do with how much Atlas would be paid for helping Jacobi haul their prisoner around before returning to Reylott.

The argument escalated to a shouting match when Jacobi apparently pulled out her cell phone and called her brother to set things straight.

A heartbeat later, Charlie's empty stomach growled, contorting like a writhing worm, and he felt the four-by-four slow down abruptly then swerve. Its back end fishtailed and it tipped slightly for a moment, thrown off balance, threatening to go belly-up. Without a seatbelt, he was flung against the driver's seat then knocked against the sides of the cramped space before the final stop propelled him into the opposite side, folding like a human accordion.

When he looked up, Jacobi was slumped into the steering wheel, airbag deployed, with Atlas in a similar position, holding his head. Charlie tested his limbs for breaks, concluded he was all in one piece. Despite the collision, the truck's headlights were still operating and he felt his brow, made out a dark stain on his fingers. He blinked. A trickle of blood flowed freely over his left eye to his lips and chin, interfering with his sight.

Atlas's door popped and he leaned on it, got out walking like a zombie searching for his last dime. He stumbled towards the rear of the four-by-four, apparently attempting to get something out of his pocket.

Charlie dabbed his shirt over the injured brow and clumsily stole over the seats, tripped as he sneaked out the open door. He sprung up, cursed his bound hands under his breath and ran towards higher ground within a grouping of boulders off-road, anywhere away from the light.

He was fortunate. Soon, the headlights had gone black, and he crouched in the soggy sand, expecting Atlas to give chase to the ends of the world. He tried to control his breathing and swiped blood to keep it out of his eye. The night was chilly. Sprinkles fell and the whir of wind blowing through low-lying thicket that lay scattered over the desert infused him with a feeling of dread.

He peered over the rock. A flashlight lit the crash site. Jacobi was out, seated against the tire and holding a compact mirror very near her face, with Atlas on the phone, pacing. The four-by-four had collided with what seemed to be an abandoned vehicle, spinning round when Jacobi hit the brakes and coming to a stop side to side.

_Run_, he thought…_but what about Don?_ Back to the house? Go for help? Decide, Dr. Eppes, _now. _A stab of pain shot through his lower back and he sat down, catching his breath. It was unexpected; he thought he was okay._ Which way do I go? I don't even know where I am._ He peeked over the rock again. Atlas marched towards him while the flashlight's beam swept back and forth, transforming sprinkles of rain into glittering streaks.

"Eppes!" he said. "You're not gonna' like it much when the coyotes tear you to shreds."

_Preferable to what you have in mind. _He scanned the area—nothing to see, and in the desert, not many places to hide; he was trapped.

"Come out," he said. "You forget we have your brother?"

The beam arched over Charlie's head. _If I'm here or there, won't change a thing._

"No place to go."

_He knows where I am. Have to get help._

The light struck his eyes and Charlie bolted blindly into the darkness. He scrambled, ran a few yards before his back seized up and his right leg gave out. He struck the ground with a thud, tucked his left leg in and tried to get up, managed no more than a crawl before Atlas caught up and wrested him back by the collar.

"Let's go home, schoolboy," he said. "They'll be coming for us."

Charlie twisted round and Atlas backhanded him across the face with the flashlight in hand, ordered him to get up, get going. The blow stunned him and he drew up his legs as Atlas towed him forward with one hand, retreating to the road. Jacobi was now in the passenger's seat, seemed none the worse for wear. At the front wheel well, Atlas plopped him down, telling him to stay there or he'd give him that lesson when they got to the house.

"You don't have a choice, Charlie." Jacobi had stepped out, was tying her hair up with a bandana. "There's nothing for miles out here. You'd die."

He curled sideways, shoulder to the tire. It was hot and the smell of burnt rubber, oil and gas reeked from the underside of the four by four. "Don't talk to me," he said. "I've had enough of you."

She slipped in behind him, her chest to his back, and handed him the bandana. With an arm stretched round his waist, she tenderly massaged his neck.

He wiggled away and dropped forward, nearly lying on the road. "Get away from me," he said, and stiffened his lower back, wary of moving too much.

"You're hurt," she said, taking an object from her purse. "Where?"

Charlie refused to answer. _It's called blood. _She offered only crocodile tears.

She knelt near him. "Sit up."

He kept his head bowed, avoided her gaze.

"Don't be dumb, I'm not in the mood," she said. "I'm trying to do you a favor."

Lifting his head, he saw she held a pocket knife. What would be an act of compassion for someone else was to Jacobi a cheap trick to puff up her rabid ego. Nevertheless, he straightened up and let her set his hands free.

"Where's my '_thank you'_?" she said, standing up, when headlights illuminated the road and a car engine rumbled near and idled. Jacobi left him and he heard voices, anger over the accident, concern over how they would get rid of the truck if they couldn't get it to run. After a brief talk, Atlas and Lipman both agreed they'd better get going before anyone showed up and they both scooped Charlie up and carried him to the car, deposited him into the backseat.

_They didn't even warn me to stay put_, he thought; _they know I'm in no shape to escape. _

_They're right._

**---3---**

Don's head drooped and Fitzy grasped his arm, led him up the stairwell. To Don, it seemed Fitzy had lost twenty years. The old man skulked like a cat, smoothly up the steps, past the tower room where they'd been imprisoned and towards the roof where they reached a landing with a doorway. He'd definitely lived in the house before.

"A little further Agent Don." Fitzy crossed his fingers and grinned when the door opened, revealing a parapet walkway on the other side in the flashlight beam. After exiting, Fitz paused to lock the bolt behind them from the outside, whispered that he was surprised it still worked. On the way to the opposite end, Don glimpsed the crenels and merlons of Fitzy's and Anne's scaled-down castle, worrying about Charlie, about where he might be.

Fitzy pointed out a bad spot in the parapet: an original section of the walkway where the stone had disintegrated and the wooden supports had been exposed and rotted away, precariously threatening to cave in onto the floor below. "Watch your step," he said. "Wouldn't want to lose you now."

Don inched cautiously round it and soon they'd come to the second tower door, but found it locked. For the first time, Don heard Fitzy swear out a spurt of known and lesser-known expletives and together they searched for a way in as quietly as possible, discovered the old door wasn't locked, but swollen with moisture and jammed stuck. Don mustered up his resolve—he had to for Charlie's sake—and they set their shoulders to the door, pushed and thumped it until wood grated wood, then budged.

By the time Fitzy shut the door behind them and slid the bolt over, Don had hit the floor, flushed with the lingering fever, clinging to the gun.

Fitzy told him to stay there a minute and rest, to hold the flashlight for him. While Don rolled to his belly, Fitz crossed the room to a coarse-granite fireplace and crouched inside the hearth, his head bent low, fooling with something on the side until Don heard the scrape of stone. He crawled in closer, shining the flashlight, and Fitz seemed to poke his upper half right into the fireplace wall. He turned back to Don and without a word between them, helped him squeeze into a tiny square portal and out onto another landing, about 6 by 6 feet. Fitzy followed, quickly pushing the granite stone back into place.

"They'll never find us here," he said, reclaiming the light. "Can you make it downstairs?"

Don sighed. "More stairs?"

"All downhill from now on." He put Don's arm over his shoulder. "Over here."

On the way down the spiraling staircase, Fitzy explained that the entrance/exit to the secret stairwell below was well-hidden by rose bushes which had survived in the semi-arid territory.

"It's a miracle," Don said, measuring each step.

"Not so much," Fitz said. "Especially when someone comes out to water 'em pretty regular."

Don nearly dropped the gun when his hand bumped the wall. "You?"

"Me. Or a guy I hired," he said. "Just a few more steps…"

In a minute, they had descended, entering a secluded, tiny chamber with a low ceiling. Don immediately went to ground, supported on the last step. He wanted to close his eyes, but pried them open, willed himself to stay alert. Fitzy appeared to know exactly what to do and went to a slab of slate-rock to their right and grabbed it, let it fall back, then began to push on another stone which had been plugged into the round portal.

"Wait," Don said, "I can't. I don't think I can make it."

Fitzy came over to lift him up. "You can lean on me."

"I'll be safe here. You know the area. While it's still dark, go! Bring help."

"Are you sure?"

Don nodded, told him it was his job to be sure and handed him the flashlight.

"All right. But you keep the flashlight." He fumbled with his pockets. "And these," he said, taking an apple from one, a half-drunken bottle of water from the other. He set them on the step.

"Thanks, but you'll need them more."

Fitzy pulled back his lapel, showed Don a second bottle of water and a bread roll inside a breast pocket. "I'm good to go." At the portal, he used his feet to punch out the stone.

"Wait." Don held up the gun. "Know how to use this?"

"Damn straight," Fitzy said. "Four years in the service. But you should—"

"No. Everything depends on you getting away. Take it."

Fitz hesitated, accepted it and started out. "I'll be back, Agent Don, you and your brother will be all right."

"My Dad will be happy to meet you," Don said. "Go!", and Fitz departed, the stone replaced. _The old man isn't so old. From now on, Dad will be young._

_And Charlie—wherever you are, hang on._

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o


	6. Claustrophobia

**Chapter Six: _Claustrophobia_**

**---1---**

For Charlie, the return ride to the castle-house was bittersweet. He would perhaps rejoin Don, but in a more trodden and battered condition than when he'd left. If Jacobi continued to insist on carrying out her eugenics project then they would have to do a better job of keeping him alive and healthy.

He rode back next to Atlas who was in a wild boar of a state, complaining that Charlie had smeared blood on the upholstery. Jacobi, riding in the front passenger's seat, stuffed a wad of tissues in Charlie's palm and told him to quit bleeding so much.

_She's topped herself—the most idiotic words to come out of her mouth yet._ He dabbed the bandana and tissues to his brow and held them there. Blood had been dribbling over his eye and he depended on the right side for the time-being. What a long night, getting longer.

They arrived in almost total darkness. A tiny glow in one of the rooms on the first floor was all that could be seen. Atlas took Charlie by his collar and led him into the candlelit kitchen where he crumpled below the ancient dumbwaiter, asking for Don.

Atlas told him to shut it when Reylott thumped open the swinging door and strode past his sister, going directly to Charlie.

"God, you're a mess," he said, hands on his hips. He turned to Jacobi. "What now?"

Jacobi seemed perturbed. "Take him to the basement."

"It's flooded." Reylott motioned a command and Atlas obeyed, stomping gruffly out of the room. "I have other things to deal with."

Charlie kept pressure on his brow, fixed his position to ease his back. "Where's my brother? Is he all right?"

Rey laughed. "No, he's not. He's in very big trouble."

_He's tangling up my brain, loves to see me squirm. _

"Don't get your shorts in a bunch, either of you," Jacobi said, and summoned Lipman, told him to take Charlie to her room on the other side of the courtyard. Although not quite as impatient as Altas, Lipman liked to brandish his gun and Charlie was afraid he'd lose his cool and fire it. Rather than admit he was having trouble walking, he gritted his teeth and veered near the walls when he began to sway, hoping he wouldn't fall.

Jacobi lit candles and Charlie limped in at gunpoint, spied a real bed, a worn-out four-poster. Clothes were strewn about and there were snacks on a card table: crackers, trail mix, canned drinks and dried fruit, beef jerky. His mouth watered.

"Lay there," she said. Lipman stuck around, posted at the entryway. "Tomorrow we should be dusting off this place."

"No." Charlie hung to a bedpost, coiled an arm round it. "I want to see Don. What have you done with him?"

"You're not allowed. I can tell you he's alive. Cooperate and he'll stay that way."

"Please," he said, but she deftly picked up a bundle of clothes and hurried out. He sat on the bed, almost drooling for the food, too spent to eat, and fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

**---2---**

_Claustrophobia. _Had this disorder shown up on the psychological exams he'd taken to get into the Bureau? Because he had it now, big-time.

After Fitzy had gone for help, Don had lain on the rocky floor of the tiny hidden space, bravely keeping the flashlight dark to save the battery. Rain had seeped into the room as it had into most of the rundown house and it was damp, chilly. The fever made him drowsy and he'd fallen asleep involuntarily; he had no choice in the matter. When he awoke in the dark, he nearly screamed out in panic then reassembled his wits with the light back on. Even with the light, the walls seemed to be closing in on him, its rough, black surface dungeon-like, creepy. He felt eternally confined, thinking he'd die there and no one would find anything but a pile of bones, decades later.

_Stop it. You can't control anything else but you can control your thoughts. I can and I will—for me, for Dad, for Charlie. _

Hopefully, Fitzy had made it to the road—the one on which Charlie had seen the sheriff—and thumbed a ride. Don had learned from Fitz that the road had only the occasional vehicle traveling through it but when he'd lived there, the sheriffs' cruisers had driven by on a regular route, passing two or three times a week. Don had asked Fitz if the sheriff Charlie had spotted could've been searching the area for him. But he'd replied that he lived alone, didn't think anyone would catch onto his disappearance for maybe two or three days. That's as often as he spoke to people. It'd been disappointing news.

He left the light on a little longer, dozed with it on. When he woke up again, a skinny shaft of sunlight no larger than the diameter of a pencil eraser had broken through a crack in the wall overhead. He heard shouting outside, braced for a raid from his captors. Instead, the shouting ceased. He crawled to the exit portal. Light rimmed the bottom and side edges. One push and he could break away from this hell-hole. He pulled himself up, against the outer wall, sipped a drink of water. He couldn't stay another night; it would be too hard. He was a man of action. Waiting and trembling sucked. Feeling shaky, he nibbled on the apple Fitz had provided and plotted out his logistics for the impending eve.

**---3---**

In the night, Jacobi came to Charlie. A single burning candle remained on the table and the first thing he sensed was her palm sweeping gently across his chest. He lay still, felt paralyzed. She sat on the bed, stroking him so lightly that he thought he was in a dream, savoring the silkiness of her well-groomed fingertips. They sneaked under his shirt, cool and inviting, gliding up his sides, over his belly button and along his waistband, inching in and out, down to his hips and thighs.

She kissed his lips and neck, nuzzled an ear, her hands constantly sliding, tantalizing him. Leaning in, she scrunched up his shirt and teased his skin with her tongue, asked if he was going to be a good boy from now on. A glint from her earring caught his eye by candlelight and he yielded under her spell. _Good boy._ Her hands groped, found their way lower, squeezing, the caresses firmer, faster. His belt had been unbuckled and she'd unfastened his jeans, fingers delving boldly beneath the fabric. He inhaled in a gasp at the touch, his entire being enticed, urged to respond.

"I can't," he whispered and she shushed him, claimed Don had tried to escape and Rey was incensed, on a rampage, and had threatened to kill him.

_Not true. She's full of perilous lies. About Rey wanting to keep me here until he was done, about the drug. _

"I've kept him from doing it," she said, luring him on. "You can save your brother's life, Charlie. I'll stay on your side. You know what to do."

His body would betray him, coerced into doing her bidding. _No, this can't happen. Don't trust her…what if it's true this time? Don—I won't take the chance if I can keep you alive. _

He clutched the sheet and gazed at her, ensnared in a liminal world. _I don't want this…_but he heard himself speak, surrendering to her for his only brother's sake. The words snagged in his throat but he shoved them out, mechanically, one by one: "I'll do whatever you want," he said, his mouth dry, the cut on his lip taut, tender.

Jacobi smiled, paused for a very fast second then carried on, climbing onto the bed over him. Against his will, he shifted, knees parting, hips rising simultaneously towards an irresistible force. But as he did, the pain in his lower back returned and pierced through the strange haze blurring his thoughts. He cried out, head pressed to the pillow.

The cry was loud enough to startle Jacobi and she retreated, got off the bed. "What's wrong with you?" she said, when someone knocked, asked if she was all right. She opened the door, insisted she was fine then returned to Charlie. "Stop faking it!" she said. "You were well enough to run."

Charlie groaned, pulled up his legs. The pain had shot down his sides and it seemed his whole back was aflame. "I'm not, it's my back," he said, and the candlelight flared, outlined the anguish on his face. "The crash."

Jacobi glowered at him from the foot of the bed, shook the frame violently. "We'll see about your brother."

The shaking hurt and he clenched his teeth. "Please," he said. "Don's done nothing wrong."

She rattled the bed again, and, taking one last look, snatched a blanket from the footboard and stalked out.

_You have no right. No right. _

He endured aftershocks of pain—his spirit violated, sickened—and rested anxiously, eyeing the candle as his breathing slowed and settled. Melting wax flowed over the top in a viscous stream and in a few minutes the discomfort and tenseness in his mind and body had tapered off to a tolerable level. The flickering flame mesmerized him and in its brilliance he imagined Don, afraid for him. Jacobi resents me; she's beginning to believe something's wrong with her, not me. With my injuries, I won't be able to deny her. If she wants me that badly, she'll take me. But I can't go this far again; I won't submit. _Yet I have to know Don's okay before they take me away—if she doesn't toss me to the coyotes. They have to let him go. _He felt stuck between a cliff and a mountainside. Two things he was certain about: Jacobi could never be trusted and he was in no position to bargain with anyone.

Fatigue won and he nodded off, plagued with disquieting nightmares, worried that Jacobi would invade again to harass him. Hours later, he listened to a shout from outside but resumed his sleep. When he awakened, he lifted a hand towards his head and aches immediately coursed through his body. Slowly, he inspected his brow. Jacobi had evidently placed a square of sticky gauze over the cut during her unwelcome nocturnal visit and his wrists had also been re-bandaged. His face was clean; he could feel it in the soft skin below and above his eyes. In this display of caring and assistance, Charlie knew she thought only of herself. After all, she was the one who'd been driving recklessly.

_What time is it? _When they'd been kidnapped, Reylott had relieved them of their possessions: cell phones, money, watches. The door was ajar and sunlight filtered through a tubular skylight over the bed. Outside in the wide hallway, Blue sat slumped in a chair opposite the room, smoking, a gun in his waistband and radio buds in his ears. Apparently he and Lipman had traded shifts.

Charlie sat up in stages, carefully assessing the damage, his muscles as flexible as a piece of plywood, and sealed his fly. From the doggedly gritty headache, to the sunburned feel of the fresh tattoo, to his twisted side, bruised knee and wretched back, he was a mess. And hungry. Without getting up, he claimed a bottle of orange juice and beef jerky from the table, watched Blue to see if he'd stop him. But Blue seemed preoccupied, said nothing. He drank, gobbled the food before anyone could tell him differently, then, when Blue looked away, he stuffed the package into his pocket. He was about to steal the trail mix when Reylott appeared, waving a gun in his hand, his boots and trousers muddied.

"Where'd he go?" he said, and jarred Charlie, clutching his jacket. "Tell me."

Charlie tried to pry him away. There was something about this pseudo-Satan that incited his anger more than anything or anyone else he'd known his entire life. He couldn't get rid of him. "What are you talking about?"

Rey held on, the gun to his head. "What'd the old man tell you? About the house."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, pulse racing. "Let go."

"This place is full of hideouts. Where's your brother?"

"Fitzy didn't say anything. None of us could've possibly—"

Reylott slapped him and Charlie was knocked sideways onto the bed. As he struggled to sit up, he noticed Blue's chair was empty. "Don's escaped?" he said. In spite of the biting sting on his cheek, he wanted to smile. _Oh my God, he's escaped, he'll be safe. Damn it, she did it again and I fell for it. What I almost gave up for a lie. _

"Did I say that?" Reylott pranced round the room like a mental aberration on legs. "There's one set of prints. The old man's. Super Donny must be hiding in the house. We know there's tunnels." He came to the bed, crowded over Charlie. "Did you think we wouldn't know?"

Charlie scooted against the headboard, uncertain what to do, what to say. _No need to bargain. But they'll do with me as they please._

Reylott's eyes were bloodshot, sags beneath the lids. "My guys'll find him."

"You found prints…this morning," he said, piecing together a plausible scenario. "So they escaped in the night." That explained the shouting at dawn, and Atlas not being around lately. Charlie had a highly probable inkling they'd be leaving soon—with yours truly in tow—in order to stay ahead of the sheriff.

"Tell me what the old man told you," Rey said. "Tell me or when I find him you're gonna' choose how he dies."

"I don't know, I swear. We planned n-nothing, we…" Charlie stopped.

Atlas had summoned Reylott out into the hallway, told him they hadn't give up on the old guy's trail and were keeping an eye out on the house…no sign of Eppes…and another problem, a landslide messed up the bridge in a flashflood last night; your sister and me wouldn't have made it very far even if we hadn't crashed, we're stuck in the valley.

"Even if the old man finds help," Altas added, "they'll have to fly in."

Reylott's shoulders relaxed. "Excellent," he said. "We have time. I wasn't quite finished with the Eppes brothers yet. If we can't get out, nobody gets in." He shooed Atlas out to maintain a lookout on the house, saying he'd take care of the schoolboy himself. Spinning round, he seized Charlie's sleeve, yanking it. "Get up. You're going to show me where he's hiding."

Charlie rose, supporting himself with the bedpost, but his legs gave out before he could catch his balance and he doubled to the floor. Reylott hoisted him up, out the door and down the hallway, asking "Where?" repeatedly, a pinched wrinkle carved in his lip, the gun swaying from wall to wall. He began to talk about his father, calling him a traitor and a son-of-a-bitch, blaming him for giving kindness to strangers then turning a one-eighty and treating his own son like a criminal. So he became one to satisfy him.

"Dad would've liked a grandkid from you and Kathy," he said. "But I'd still have to get rid of your brother to protect the family line."

_Oh shit. I'm in the hands of insanity incarnate. I thought he hated me. _In all his previous experiences with Reylott, Charlie had known the man was obsessed but he'd somehow managed to evince a comprehensible logic, albeit driven by an irrational craving for revenge. Now he was seriously delusional, didn't make any sense.

Reylott led him toward the tower stairs. "Come out, Donny, your brother misses you!" he said, yelling. "Where, Charlie?…Up…up here."

"I swear, I don't know." The stairs slowed him down. "We never talked about it."

"Walk."

Reylott continued to pull, hustling him up the steps. When they arrived at the tower door, Rey's cell phone rang and he released his prisoner, answered it. From the conversation, Charlie concluded that Jacobi was none too happy that her eugenics project had been confiscated without her permission. After an argument ensued, Rey abruptly cut her off and put the phone away, when it rang again. Apparently losing momentum in the hunt for Don, he kicked open the tower door and flung Charlie in, locking it behind him.

**---4---**

_Too quiet in here. Feels like a tomb. _Don had had enough. _The hour had come_; it was dark—he could tell by the absence of light in the cracks of the exit way and from the wall above. He'd slept on and off, watching the pencil shaft of sunlight trek evenly across the space, listening, not hearing anything but a few drips of water and the occasional scurry of a rodent or bird. No voices, not like before.

Surely Fitzy had succeeded by now, safely drinking coffee, a blanket over his shoulders and surrounded by Don's team, questioning him about the layout of the house in preparation for a raid.

Yes, that's what's happening. The cover of darkness. An approach from over the hill or the plateau. Night vision gear. People stationed north, south, east and west of the castle-house, behind the garage, the shed, hidden amongst the overgrown shrubbery or crouched below the foundation and terraced paths.

This is as good as it gets. The apple and water had been consumed. He'd regained a few grains of strength, but was eons from a hundred percent. His sight was a bit fuzzy and his skin felt clammy, dogged by the fever, a lot like the flu. He wondered about the tattoo. Since he couldn't see it, he didn't know how much had been completed or whether it could be infected. All he knew was that it was uncomfortable, sensitive to touch.

Dark enough. With the flashlight off, he lay on his back and used his feet like Fitzy had done to slide out the flat stone that covered the opening. To his surprise, he discovered it wasn't heavy and toppled with a slight thud to the dirt. He peeked out on his belly, could see but the slightest tangle of bushes in front of him and he stretched out his hand, got pricked with thorns. Where was moonlight when you needed it? He wormed out to his waist, keen to avoid the stiff stems, and pulled himself out, propped against the wall, always listening, knees against his chest.

The sky bore the remnants of the day, a fragile wash of sun dwindling gradually, on the brink of vanishing. It might have been better to wait until the wee hours but in order to see, he decided he couldn't delay_. The minute had come. _Until he got farther away, and perhaps not even then, the flashlight was out of the question. In the desert, the smallest light could be seen from far away.

His eyes adjusted and he made out the outline of a black blob-shape in the brush, under the leaves. Pausing briefly to listen, he sank to his belly again and crawled towards it, shimmying under the brush, keeping his head bowed to protect his eyes. The thorns caught on his clothes, scratched his face and hands, but he soldiered forward about six feet until he came upon the subtle trace of the horizon, faced away from the house towards the garage. He gazed up. There was light in two windows—the dreaded machine room—and he heard the distant hum of the generator.

_Charlie. If I could find you. If I had the strength. _The choice was mercilessly unforgiving: he would leave, go for help. Let the professionals handle it. The decision crushed his heart. But in the poor state he was in, he'd simply make the situation worse for both he and Charlie if he were to try to locate and rescue him. He'd be one man against five. Ironically, Jacobi's ridiculous scheme for Charlie was likely to keep him living.

He stood, bending, the crunch of gravel-like pebbles underfoot, and scrutinized the area for signs of movement. _The second had come_ and he shot out, towards the garage, slapped himself up on the side of the wall where he couldn't be seen from the house. He slid along the building, rushing to the other corner, prepared to proceed toward the nearest hill, yards away. Although he couldn't see it clearly, he did remember spying down on it from the window of the tower.

_God, I'm dead beat already. _Weak as a kitten, Fitzy; keep the coffee warm.

He dashed out, tripped on something solid and met the ground with a thump, the flashlight flung from his grip. Before he could think, he was nabbed at the shoulders and picked up, a sleeve smashed snugly over his mouth and chin, arms curved behind him. They carried him fast, efficiently, and his feet floated off the ground, elbows bearing his weight. He grunted under the sleeve, lost a shoe when the land inclined upwards and they hurried him on, forward, over the very hill he'd aimed for then down the other side, picking up speed until they got to where they were going, forced him to the sand. There they halted—and the whispering began.

o_-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	7. Red Meat

**Chapter Seven: _Red Meat_**

**---1---**

The mattress was damp, smelled like a wet towel left in a car trunk and a stagnant puddle combined—and there was a hole in the roof, bits of wood, nails and leaves deposited on the floor. Charlie summed up what had happened then considered climbing through the hole. Steeling his will, he made a feeble attempt to pull himself up but neither his back nor knee cared to join the effort. He only skimmed the ceiling with his fingers, crinkling into a heap.

Like a turtle, he crawled towards the wall and set his body up in a semi-dry corner, legs spread out straight, and wound up lying on his side, head on the mattress. He'd gotten used to the odors in the neglected, decaying old place. There wasn't anything to be do but wait and he figured the less he moved the more his back might begin to heal, hoping it was a very bad, reparable sprain, not a fracture. Presently, it felt like it had contracted tightly into one solid block of aching, fused flesh.

At least I had one night's rest, relatively. Had Jacobi been real? He hadn't decided whether the bump on his head had caused him to hallucinate or whether he was going as nuts as Reylott. Of course she was real. Hell. _That it was._ He pushed away the memory. Where's your rescue crew, Don? I thought you said they were sharp. _They are sharp, they'll be here. They'll figure it out. _He crossed his fingers, going on faith, choosing to believe that Don had gotten away. That would be the hope to hang his hat on.

He selected a few slices of beef jerky, said out loud, "Red meat, let's eat," and took a bite, nearly too exhausted to chew. All the Eppes men said it, like Dad—poor Dad. The food seemed to lodge in his throat and he forced a swallow, hesitated before taking another bite. Finished, he dozed, stirred awake by birds on the roof and straight into loneliness, uncertainty. Eventually, he made up his mind to avoid dwelling on scary scenarios and focused on the team, how they and a zillion other FBI heroes would be here en masse to take him home.

The blue-grey sky in the roof's hole dimmed and stars appeared in its stead. He hated the darkness but the weather was temperate and he was neither hot nor cold. There was one incredible star in the sky—the planet Mars because it didn't twinkle—and he concentrated on it, trying to forget the awful setting, and studying the planet's golden tint. With his fingers, he added up facts about the planet which Larry had mentioned over the years. Around number eight, he lost his place and recounted, beginning with his thumb. At this point, the little red arrow on his brain-gage was wavering at the big "E" for empty and stringing one thought to another was a formidable task.

And he was thirsty. _When I get home: A beer, Coke, water._ Anything would do. The counting lulled him into an unsettling slumber and he envisioned the number sixteen over and over again, instinctively multiplying the equation "four times four" which mimicked the writing on the side of the 4x4 truck they'd crashed in. He reasoned that it was his mind's way of sorting through the mental trauma in the aftermath.

Dozing on, he awoke to the creak of the door and a lantern swinging from someone's hand. _No no, go away. Leave me alone. _He scooted his legs in as far as his back would permit and tilted his knees to the wall. It hurt but there was little he could to shield himself from what Jacobi had in mind.

She put the lantern down on the floor. "Smells moldy in here," she said, and sniffed, wrinkling her nose.

He gathered his jacket across his chest. "Leave me alone or let me go."

"Can't do that. Rey's keeping you a stitch longer."

_Why do I talk to you? _"What is it? Go or stay?"

She knelt on the mattress. "Rey's changing his mind. He's totally unreasonable."

He inched aside as far as he was able to. "Stay away from me." _The tide has turned, _Charlie thought, _now I'm afraid of her._

"My poor Charlie. I'm not going to hurt you," she said, and reached for his forehead.

He smacked her hand away. "Don't touch me."

Laughing, she toyed with him by digging her knuckles into his torso and thighs like her brother had done in the machine room. Apparently the Reylotts had similar torture techniques. The disturbing part was contemplating where they'd learned them from.

"Quit it," he shouted, in pain. "Leave me alone, bitch!"

Jacobi halted cold, her features menacing under the lantern's glare. "How dare you," she said, then closed in and hung over him, sunk her hands into his hair. He grabbed her forearms to push her away but she held on, twisted the roots until he yelled out.

"You may not be up to giving me what I want tonight, Charlie," she warned. "But you will soon. Because you're mine."

Charlie pulled away but her grip kept him firm and he stared into her fiery eyes. _A sociopath, she's a sociopath. She can't feel. She can't know how it feels to be me. _"Don's gotten away," he said. "That's all I care about."

With one fist lodged in his hair, she grabbed him by the chin. "What if he didn't and Rey's with him right now, doing God knows what to him?"

"He's not. You don't know how not to lie."

She taunted him. "What if he's dead and you don't know it?"

"Go away!" Charlie said. "You're going to kill me."

"Oh no, I'm not—no more than I would a purebred puppy—and Rey better not either. You're mine. Do you hear me?"

"Let me go," he said, the pain in his back building.

"I said, do you hear me?" She leaned into his ear. "Answer me, Charlie!"

"Yes, I heard you, yes," he said, and she planted a kiss on his lips, long and harsh.

Releasing him with a grunt, she took up her lantern and stood back beside the door. "I'm not protecting you anymore," she said, her voice amplified in the hollow room. "If you live, you live, if not, then maybe Don can give me what I want."

_Not Don._ For a split-second, Charlie had doubts about whether Don had escaped when he heard the clomp of feet, the shuffle of bootsteps. Before he could regroup from Jacobi's badgering or get up from the floor, the door suddenly opened wide and a flashlight shot into his face. He averted his eyes, realizing the lantern had disappeared and Jacobi along with it.

Reylott emerged from the shadows. "We have business to finish," he said, and the light beam grew larger. "Kathy's mad at you, huh? She makes me mad everyday. Let's go!"

Charlie sat up, arching against the stone to compensate for his back. He'd gotten up too quickly. He shut his eyes, allowing the pain to pass but Atlas was already on him, tugging his wrist. "I won't go," he said, remaining seated. "Let me be. I told you I don't know where Don is."

Reylott moved in, shining the ray of light onto Charlie's head. "Do you have him?"

"Got him," Atlas said, and, bracing his feet, he jerked Charlie from the corner in one brusque motion, dragging him towards the door.

Charlie felt as though his back would split apart and he cried out, wouldn't budge. After towing him a few feet across the floor, Altas whacked him on the ear with his fist, furious that he wouldn't move. "What do you want from me?" he said, reeling. As he recovered from the blow, Atlas heaved him up under the arms and lugged him out and down the stairs, riding sideways, his feet bumping the steps. Between strained breaths, he repeated a single word in protest: _no…_until his voice grew hoarse.

They took him to the machine room, plunked him down on the table. Charlie was well aware of their intentions and he defiantly opposed them, launching lame punches and missing his targets, unable to lift his legs. Adrenaline lent a surge of energy, dulled some of the pain, and he slipped off the table but it was no contest. Atlas belted him in the belly and he doubled over, air knocked out of his lungs. They ripped off his jacket and as soon as his head greeted the wood, wrist met wrist, ankle met ankle and he was rebound with the cords. Reylott settled onto a corner stool within Charlie's line of sight, his elbow on the counter.

At the table, Blue prepared his tools. Lipman was absent—no doubt busy harassing rattlesnakes with bullets. Charlie called them names, said he wasn't going to hold quietly for more of this. Then he remembered the cloth, the hazards in its nauseatingly sweet smell. That he absolutely didn't want.

Atlas casually unfolded his knife in front of his hapless prisoner, poking the blade point into the neckline of his T-shirt. He cut, slicing the shirt to mid-back then tore the rest of the way, stretching the material aside. "He's ready," he said, rubbing Charlie's inflamed shoulder. "Nice tattoo."

He cringed, groaning openly as the machine activated. _When will they end this?_ The lamp cast a bleak dullness into the room and Reylott poured candle wax onto the counter, unaffected by his prisoner's pain. Charlie knew the consequences but when the needle touched him he flinched and began to squirm. Blue growled and complained to Reylott whereupon Rey warned Charlie they could put him to sleep and he'd go home to teach with no bare skin left at all, tattoos emblazoned over his face and neck.

Charlie had relented when Jacobi entered, carrying her flute. He raised his head, asked her to help him with a forlorn look. She would never admit it, he assumed, but she wouldn't want him accidentally dead and in her own convoluted way she was antsy to take him away from here. So he pleaded silently, desperate, his pride flung to the wind.

Reylott seemed annoyed and told her to get lost, stop interfering. Charlie watched her. She was rubbing the same spot on the flute with her thumb as if she were trying to remove a stain, pacing between the archway and the table. _Someone could almost feel sorry for her_, he thought, _Someone else, not me_. _You're a means to an end, that's all. _It was weird but she'd changed in the short interval since he'd last seen her, as though she were two people. Her eyes were tinged with a sad, childlike quality and she hesitated, gave Charlie one last glance then walked out.

"Get on with it," Reylott said, and Blue obeyed. But Jacobi lingered outside the archway and each time she passed by Charlie would raise his head—begging her without words—and Blue would gripe, prompting Reylott to warn Charlie to keep his head on the wood. He told Jacobi to go get some sleep, everything would soon be done and they'd go back to the city. Still she stayed and finally Reylott dug into their supplies and brought out a roll of wide masking tape, zipped off a strip and fixed it over Charlie's eyes.

**---2---**

Don wrestled with his abductors. They'd restrained his arms and the sleeve which had gagged him became a heavy hand, powerful and snug. He was in the middle of a kick when a dot of light zigzagged wildly in the center of his face. He blinked, shrunk away as a voice spoke out, softly:

"Don, it's okay, it's us."

The man with the dot of light shone it on himself and Don recognized the eyes, the voice. _Colby_. He was short of breath but the rigidness eased from his body and the hand went away, his arms released. Inhaling deeply, he turned to his left and saw who'd been restraining him—it was David.

"You all right?" David said, embracing him briefly.

He wrapped his aching arms across his chest, massaged his biceps. "I think so," he said. "Charlie…"

"Shhhh…we know," Colby said, crouched low. "Fitzgerald's filled us in."

"Fitzy's okay?" _He did it._ Terror swept over him. "I don't know where Charlie is."

"We think he's in the house."

Don was surprised; Megan had spoken up from nowhere and he could barely see her distinct eyes. Out there, he knew other agents were anxiously anticipating the signal to execute. "I wanna' go back," he said, attempting to stand, but the others made him sit. "Please, it's Charlie."

David put an arm over him and he winced. Raw nerves surrounding the tattoo had reacted as if they'd been set on fire.

In the darkness, David's tiny light wavered and bounced and he apologized for being too rough. "We had to get you out fast."

"No, it's not that, it wasn't you," Don said, sighing. "Just a little sore." _Just a little ready to strangle Reylott and his monkeys. _

A woman agent approached from the background of black, whispered to Colby. He and Megan said they had to leave but would be right back, instructing Don to stay put.

David looked Don over, commented on the cuts and bruises. "Solano and Stine will get you back to base camp, get you on a helicopter to a doc."

"Uh-uh, no hospital. I'm not leaving." He nudged David in the ribs. "Get me some water, I'll be fine." Unsteadily, he stood and felt faint, his head wilting. The kitten had a long journey ahead.

David helped him to the ground. "You need a stretcher," he said, and began to radio for one.

"I'm not going." _So hot, hate this fever._ _Accept it, Eppes, you'd be a liability. Don't waste time for Charlie, let them do their jobs. Sometimes you have to be a regular human, a civilian. _"Okay," he said, suppressing a cough. "I'll stand down, but I stay, behind the lines."

"All right." David rummaged through a rucksack. "Behind the lines—no fudging," he said, and handed Don a bottle of water. "Feel sick?"

"I am," he said, hushed. "I think it's a bad reaction to chloroform."

"Holy crap," David said, feeling Don's forehead. "That Reylott's definitely on my list. We got six entry points on the house, and then some. We're good to go."

Don drank. "Fitz told you about the hidden ingress?"

"Yeah, with any luck, we'll route 'em out before you doze off."

"Never. Not until I know Charlie's all right."

David nodded. "He will be."

**---3---**

Reduced to hearing, Charlie was naturally riveted to any noise he encountered while his sight was limited to recognizing only light from dark. Evidently, Blue had taken another lazy break because the machine had stopped for a few minutes but now it revved up again, the needle flitting up and down on his skin like a sewing machine. He heard steps going by him, round the table, and a hand whacked his foot. He recoiled, or tried to, figured that it was Reylott, cruelly playing with his mind.

Someone came in, their steps quick. "Bad news. I sent him out to the bridge," a voice said, excited. It was Atlas and he was referring to Lipman. "He called, said it's still out but he saw a light circling behind the plateau, then it flew in the other direction."

Blue had paused his needlework, the machine abuzz for a moment longer as Reylott sent out the order to junk the generator. Footsteps hastened out of the room and shortly, both the lamp and machine went off and flashlights were back in use. It was deathly quiet for an imminent ten seconds as if his captors were scanning for trouble and then his legs and arms were let hurriedly loose. They sat him up, shirt hanging from his shoulders, and slid him off the table, held him up. Charlie picked at the tape, wanted to see what was going on but hurried hands snatched his wrists together again and retied them behind his back.

Reylott instructed Atlas and Blue to canvass the area and call him if they saw something. Atlas objected, said what if they're on to us, it's freaking dark out there—we're getting out of here.

He started to leave and Reylott told him they wouldn't get paid if they mutinied on him and in the midst of his threat, Charlie jumped, startled by an unexpected noise. He'd heard a powerful thump as though a heavy object had collided into a wall, followed by breaking glass and an ominous commotion from the hallway. Men shouted, "Stop, freeze," and through the translucent tape, he sensed light flowing in the hallway. _They've found us! _he thought, and called out that he was there, _in here_.

A hail of gunshots reverberated through the house and Reylott rushed him out, headed not towards the archway but in the opposite direction to the second door. Charlie called out again and Rey jerked him into the adjacent room and shut the door behind him with a bang. He heard a piercing squeak—another door opening—and was pulled onward, voices fading behind them, gunshots dying down. He stumbled, passing over uneven, rocky floor on what appeared to be an undeviating path toward the rear of the house and the courtyard.

"It's no use," Charlie said. "You can't get away."

Reylott pulled him along. "Shut up."

"What about your sister?"

"She can take care of herself," he said. "You're worried about her, isn't that nice."

_Impossible. But I'd prayed you'd care enough about her to let me go. _

They halted and Reylott plastered him against the wall with a precise thrust. Charlie's back seized up and he grunted under the strain, knees folding. Mid-bend, Reylott picked him up, wrapped an elbow around his neck, the gun at his head.

"Well-behaved, schoolboy," he said. "Quiet or I pop you." and he pushed him forward. "We're going out the gate."

**---4---**

Don shuddered but it wasn't the fever. He'd come over the hill with Agents Solano and Stine and was close to the house—close enough to view the action from afar with or without night vision gear. When the gunshots sounded, he wanted to bolt to the site, save Charlie.

_David, what the hell are you and Colby doing? Damn it you guys, you're going to get him killed._

He listened on the radio, clutched his second bottle of water. They were searching the house, light beams darting round the complex and past the windows, scrambling to pinpoint Reylott's location. One suspect was down and another captured, the other had fled. _Chaos_. Agents had swarmed the area, scurried to catch up. _Anyone down? Report, report. Everyone accounted for? _

_Where's the victim, where's Charles Eppes? Get these jerks out of here they say they don't know…they won't say, the liars—forget them. Move it, you two. Franco, see if you can get that generator going. You, upstairs, the rest of you take the hallway, over there, you—take Boswell. Hurry! The passageways…more light, get more light. Get the maps, re-check the maps. Reylott's fled, gone…he's got a hostage; he's armed—he'll use it. He's gotta' be here somewhere. _

_One of the hidden exits, stairwells. You, down the damned hallway. Aaron!—tell Crosby to calm down before he does something stupid…What's where? Who? Stand by, stand by…we know, Agent Eppes is waiting, we know, as soon as…What's with the fucking door? God he's sneaky, that asshole…. Light, make it snappy. It's stuck. Get over here! Shoulder to it, on three…one, two…higher, hold that beam still…there, it's pretty big, it's the tunnel, we're in. Son of gun, this way. Keep the light together, boys. We got something, Sykes, get more people on the other end—cover me, cover me…_

Cover Charlie! Don crushed the bottle to his chest, felt his stomach ache; he was sweating, a shout on the threshold of his lips. _Unbearable. Charlie, you'll be okay, you'll be okay. _

**---5---**

A brisk breeze swept by and Charlie splashed into a puddle, realizing Reylott had brought him outdoors. Leaves rustled under his feet and stiff limbs brushed against the cuff of his pants, scraped his face and chest. It was awkward and painful to walk and Rey held him so firmly he could hardly breathe, unable to speak beyond a clipped whisper. From the house, frightening, animated voices issued commands and warnings in rapid-fire outbursts—_thank God we've been spotted_—and in the next instant, the outbursts intensified, penetrating the atmosphere. The rescuers had descended upon them, ordering Reylott to stop, freeze.

He wouldn't give up and spun Charlie sharply round with him. "Step up, now," he said, and climbed the stairs in the courtyard. Charlie braced himself and obeyed, struggling to lift his legs. The situation heightened; agents seemed to be a few yards away, their voices severe and stern, instructing Rey to let him go, we'll shoot, there's no way out. In return, Rey gruffly threatened to kill his hostage and ordered them to stay back.

Charlie resisted, letting Reylott take most of his weight, which only choked him further. He guessed they were headed towards the parapet where there was no way to go but down.

_I'll get shot in the crossfire_, _never see it coming._

**---6---**

"What's happening?" Don said, and he shook the radio. "Is Charlie there, he okay?" The reply came from Megan; they had a hostage situation in progress, stand by.

When he heard this, Don dragged himself up, started down the hill and towards the house. But before he could go any further, Solano and Stine blocked him, pleaded with him to stand off, telling him there was nothing he could do that his team wasn't already doing.

Don refused and kept going. This time the others didn't interfere but instead escorted him to the safe area behind the garage. He'd insisted on going on towards the house when Megan emerged from the front entrance and intercepted him, urged him to turn back. Reluctantly, Don went to ground, keeping track on the radio, eyes glued round the corner towards the house, Megan beside him.

"Why don't we take Rey out?" he said. "What's taking them so long?"

Megan laid a hand on his arm. "They're doing all they can. Trust them."

_It's too hard. I should be in there._

**---7---**

They'd gotten to the top of the parapet walkway and Charlie remained under Reylott's control. He could make out diffused lights, grown brighter, and from their voices the agents seemed no more than a meter away. Charlie identified two of them, Colby and David, who spoke passionately yet with unflinching authority, trying to persuade Reylott to give up his hostage and surrender, that he had no chance of getting away.

"I'll do it," Reylott repeated, stepping backwards. "Stand off. All I want is a clear run out of here."

"All right, just let him go," David said. "And we'll talk about it."

Charlie's heart must have skipped a beat because he felt a flutter in his chest when—over the mixed clamor of all the live wires, gun clicks and shouting—he picked up on a familiar voice that sounded like Don, asking what was going on over the radio._ So good to hear your voice, so bad it has to be now. _And though blinded, Charlie pictured them all: David and Colby and a legion of agents teeming round them, in Kevlar vests and standard gear, sidearms and rifles drawn, all aimed at Satan and the schoolboy.

"Hold your place!" It was Colby. From the racket behind him, Charlie gathered that another unit had come up the opposite stairs and had advanced from the other end of the walkway. Reylott was surrounded.

"Back off!" Rey said, the sound shrill in Charlie's ear. "I got nothing to lose."

Charlie knew something was wrong, more wrong yet as dangerous as what was already going on around him. Beneath their feet, the floor of the parapet shifted downwards slightly and Rey's death-grip on his neck eased its tightness. The walkway appeared to be disintegrating and Charlie compensated, leaning forward, fighting to maintain his balance. At the same time, the rapid pop-pop-pop of gunshots erupted and whir of bullets whizzed past his ears. A frenzied uproar of yelling and activity ensued when his whole body began to sink. He tumbled forward and an agent caught him, hoisted him away and back the way they'd come, saying, "I got you, I got you." He heard a man scream, the breaking of stone, crack of wood then a deafening crash.

"You're all right, I got you," David said, hauling him further away. From the front, a second agent ripped the tape from his eyes and Charlie blinked—it was Colby, dimly lit in the dark.

"Let's get out of here," David said. "The whole thing's gonna' go." Deftly, they picked Charlie up by his arms and retreated across the walkway to the courtyard, bundling him down the stairs.

"Charlie, you all right?" they both asked, hitting the last step in a rush. While David supported him, Colby cut his hands free and he assured them he was all right when he felt a biting prick in his right bicep. He glanced down, noticed the same dark stain he'd seen after the collision in the truck.

"I think…" Charlie said, blood on his fingers, "you got me," and his legs gave out. The lights dashing round him dimmed, shrinking into smudges and pinpoints. He felt himself being lowered to the ground then lying in David's arms. Colby leaned near, told him he'd be okay, hang in there, let go...we'll take good care of you, it's over, it's over…

_It is?_

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	8. Mallet of Guilt

**Chapter Eight: _Mallet of Guilt_**

**---1---**

"_Get his legs. Easy, easy, support his head. Keep that pressure on."_

The cool voice was concerned, the hands and arms gentle—a poignant contrast from the treatment Charlie had undergone with Reylott and his men. Moments after he'd collapsed, he'd come round into a semi-conscious state and agents had already assembled out of the shadows and crowded round him, confidently grasped him up and transported him into the house. His clothes were wet; he'd gone down into a puddle and what was left of his shirt was soaked. When he opened his eyes, his sight seemed to spin so he kept them shut, feeling like he might pass out again. It was a blessing to be at the horizon of unconsciousness because as he drifted near it, the pain would lesson and he breathed easier, his body's way of sparing him from additional trauma. Soon, he stopped fighting to stay awake and let himself float into the void between two worlds: one severe and excruciating, the other blissfully unaware of ever existing.

"Charlie?"

Someone wanted him to say something, obviously, but his eyes wouldn't open and if eyes don't open, then lips don't work either, so why try?

"Charlie?"

_I want to sleep. _

"You're going to be okay."

_As long as I sleep._

"We have people on the way."

_No more people. Rest, nice place... _

"Charlie?"

_The question in my name again. _

"Can you hear me? It's David."

_Wake up for David. He may need me for something._

"He's not responding."

_I'm trying, give me time._

"Bleeding's slowed. He's exhausted, doesn't seem to have a fever."

_Don has fever…Don…_

"Come on, Charlie, I see those eyes jumpin' round. I know you're in there. What's one plus one?"

_Sixteen….no, one plus one…two. Two minus one brother equals…me._ His eyelids seemed weighted with bricks so he spoke with them welded shut. "Where's Don?" he said, hushed, his voice like a gravel pit.

"You'll be fine," David said. "Just stay with us, all right? I got your arm, you're doing great."

Charlie turned to look at him, unlocked his lids. His eyesight was hazy. "Where's Don?"

"He's on his way."

_Don made it. He did. Pain's on its way, too. _It was a juggernaut, headed towards him full speed. Gradually, he'd begun to float away from the void between worlds. He would no longer be spared the stress. If he had to wake up, the news was worth waking up to. _Don's alive...it really is over. _

Charlie touched David's arm lightly, tried to lift his head. "I want to see him."

"Don't talk, Charlie." Colby had come into view and he took his hand, laid it back down on the blanket. "Save your strength."

**---2---**

Don had been glued to the radio—his heart in this throat—and when the news came that Charlie was safe, he wanted to burst out and give a cheer, yet didn't. Showing great composure, he requested to go to him. With assistance, he was taken round through the courtyard and found Charlie lying on a blanket in the kitchen, bare-chested under a cover and looking shell-shocked. Medical personnel attended to him, preparing to insert an IV while David assisted, holding a bandage to Charlie's arm and apologizing for the stray shot. Don knelt beside them and cradled his brother's hand.

Charlie gazed up at him, eyes full of relief. "Where have you been?"

He sat down, intending to give him a hug, too drained to do so. "To hell and back," Don said. "I never left you. You're gonna' be okay."

"You?"

"Me, too." he said, knowing he couldn't sit up anymore, weaving back and forth. David made room for him and he stretched out next to Charlie, brought up a leg and remembered he'd misplaced a shoe in the sands. The medics attended to him, hovered and checked for injuries, taking his blood pressure, and he yawned, sent his eyes on vacation. "Be okay."

Alan was contacted as Don and Charlie still lay on the blanket, under blankets. He talked to his sons, told them they sounded terrible. The strain in his father's voice forced Don to hold back tears. I'll get back on my feet before you can say weak as a kitten, Dad, I can hardly wait to see you.

While Colby held the phone to his ear, Charlie was able to add a few words, told his father he'd taken some friendly fire, but it wasn't bad, hang tight, Pop, he said, they're flying us home via the hospital.

Don told David there was no need to apologize, they'd saved their lives. Colby nodded although from the expression on his face it appeared he felt rotten about it as well.

Charlie turned to David, cleared his throat. "Thank you," he murmured. "You guys did good."

**---3---**

At the hospital, both Don and Charlie were admitted. Alan was present when they arrived and he rushed to Charlie's side. All in all, his son was fortunate: the stray bullet had gone through his flesh cleanly and there was moderate but controlled bleeding. In addition, there were signs which indicated that he'd sustained a mild concussion from the injury on his brow. His knee was bruised, unbroken. He was dehydrated, readily remedied with proper treatment.

"Now that I've seen you," he told Charlie. "I can believe you're all right."

"The back spasms," Charlie said. _Everything had happened so fast._ "What'd the doctor say? I…I didn't catch everything. It's been so, too…"

"Shhhh...Be still. Don't worry," Alan said. "They'll be taking you up for tests any minute."

Charlie asked for Don and Alan told him he was holding his own, that they were checking him over.

"He'll be all right, Dad." The ceiling lights annoyed him and he shielded his eyes. "He's tough."

**---4---**

_An ominous hum echoed through the room—no, not again..._

Don awoke with a start to a hand on his head, found his father standing next to the bed, thankful it wasn't the nurse, glad it was only a dream. Alan assured him, smoothed his hair.

"Charlie?" Don said. "How…"

Alan pulled up a chair but didn't sit. "He's resting. Go back to sleep."

Don noticed the IV, fidgeted with the tubing. "I was wrong, Dad."

"What do you mean?"

"Reylott was alive. That monster was still alive. How could I've been so stupid?"

"No, we're not going there," Alan said. "No one could've known. No one. You hear me?"

A nurse interrupted and they paused while she checked the monitors and IV then quietly left.

"I hear you." Don felt leashed by the wires and lines surrounding him, confined. The last thing he wanted was to be dressed in someone else's used old lady gown and be near more machines. But there he was, restricted, virtually restrained. "Must be the fever talking."

"Donny," Alan touched his shoulder, prompting him to lean to the side. "Let's see."

Don rolled a bit, allowed him to examine the tattoo. "I feel mutilated," he said. "What did Charlie say?"

Alan retied Don's gown, told him to lay back. "I didn't mention it. He looked like he couldn't handle anymore questions from anyone." He walked back and forth to the sink, scratching his head. "How could anyone do that to my sons?"

"It is my fault."

"That's not what I'm saying. I just…." He couldn't seem to find the word.

"I must've missed something," Don said. "A report, a memo. Didn't return a call, pick up on a clue that would've told me he was out there somewhere."

"Stop it. I want you to take it easy. The doctor says your fever's high, you have to concentrate on getting well. Charlie's gonna' need you again, like the first time. We have to stick together on this and you hitting yourself over the head with the mallet of guilt isn't going to help any of us."

Don listened, tears forming, kept from falling. He acknowledged with a nod and Alan pulled the blanket round his chest, told him to keep warm, that he loved him, and he'd be there when he woke up.

The remainder of the night, Alan alternated his watch between each of his sons and by mid-morning, tests showed that Charlie's lower back was severely sprained, but not fractured. Overall, the ligaments had sustained some damage but were in tolerable shape under the circumstances. Because of their exposure to the chloroform, blood work was done on both brothers to check for damage to their livers, kidneys and hearts. They were also warned that they'd have to be monitored in the near future for the delayed onset of symptoms. The initial analyses, however, showed they were in fair condition, considering—except for Don's allergic reaction which lingered, keeping him lethargic and headachy. Within forty-eight hours, Charlie had been released but Don remained in the hospital, waiting impatiently for the poisonous chemical to dissipate from his body.

**---5--**

At home, Charlie had to be guided, supported on a protracted climb upstairs to bed where he slept almost continuously, physically and mentally depleted and under the influence of pain killers and a muscle relaxant. He lay flat in bed for the first two days, vaguely aware and mumbling to those who visited him: Larry, David and Megan, Amita; and later switched to the couch downstairs, using a cane and an extra arm from Alan to get to the washroom when necessary, his back healing sluggishly. For short periods, he'd read or work on his laptop with one arm, his other in a sling. His bandaged wrists troubled him and he treated them gingerly, bending as little as possible.

He called Don, upset that he couldn't visit him. Don's voice was composed yet he seemed distracted and depressed. Charlie didn't keep him long, advised him to rest, then rest some more, and do what the doctors told him to do.

To this, Don's usual personality surfaced for an instant and he said, "I'm tired of being told what to do."

That Charlie could understand.

Fitzy had also been in the hospital. In fact, while the raid had been in progress, he'd rested there waiting for word on his friends, recovering from exposure and dehydration. It saddened Don and Charlie to know that no one had ever reported him missing from his home. But Fitzy was their hero, and Alan, David, Colby and Megan agreed, the elderly gentleman had performed a courageous deed, ultimately saving the lives of the Eppes brothers. Not to mention ridding the world of a very bad man, albeit indirectly.

**---6---**

Three days later, the fever broke. Don was incredibly relieved, felt his strength begin to rebuild. The kitten had grown up, and in good form. Charlie had been on the phone with him that day and no one needed to say a thing because Charlie said he'd known immediately from the tone of Don's voice that something excellent had happened.

Once released, Don camped out in Charlie's guestroom, figuring he needed to be with his family a little longer before going back to his own place…and his father didn't give him a choice. Since he was recovering nicely, he spent more time helping Charlie than Charlie could spend helping him.

The brothers talked over the aftermath: Reylott had perished, taken out in a strategically measured hail of bullets and plunging through the walkway and down to the ground floor. Atlas had been wounded, but would survive to stand trial or go to prison. Lipman had bypassed the bridge on foot, stolen a car and was caught by sheriff's deputies on the road, on the run—he'd deserted Reylott. Blue had surrendered, was apprehended unharmed. And Jacobi had been captured when she'd tried to drive off in a car which had been hidden in the garage: Fitzy's. Apparently, she'd been leaving temporarily because she was fully aware the bridge was out and revealed to police that she had no idea the FBI surrounded the house.

They'd been imprisoned east of the city, on the perimeter of hotter, drier terrain even further east. When he'd escaped, Fitzy had been pursued by Reylott's men and had been forced to hide for hours. When he'd finally eluded them and gotten to the bridge, he'd hiked a challenging distance along the riverbank before finding a safe place to cross. On the other side, he'd been lucky, picked up by a citizen in a motor home. Thereafter, the authorities and then David had been contacted, and the wheels started spinning.

Upon Don's homecoming, Larry came by to see how they were doing. In the living room, they sat with Charlie stretched out on the couch, a pillow under his knees, not doing much. Together, they talked over their experiences, piecing together how cleverly Reylott had carried out his scheme and marveling at Jacobi's ludicrous request. To Don, Larry seemed in a solemn mood, as though there was something more on his mind than he let on.

Finally, Don asked him straight out, was there anything bothering him?

Larry wrung one hand over the other and watched each of them alternately. "Previously," he said. "I didn't deem it appropriate, and I haven't perceived it as terribly necessary, so I couldn't bring myself to ask you, Charles, but…"

Charlie spoke up, hesitantly. "You want to know about Jacobi, if we…you know…"

"Oh my, no, that's not it at all. That's between you and the universe, it's your business although if you do desire an ear to lean on I'd be happy to…no, this concerns the marks."

"The tattoos?" Don said, and Larry affirmed with a nod. "You want to see it."

Larry, apparently embarrassed, proclaimed he was imposing on them but had caught a glimpse of Charlie's tattoo when he'd visited him in the hospital yet wouldn't think of troubling his friend with his selfish curiosity now.

"Everyone wants to see, Larry, it's not just you." Larry's face lightened to hear it. "But I," Charlie said, glancing at Don. "_We've_ been ignoring it. We've decided to worry about one thing at a time."

"Because of the…scars?" Larry asked, softly, as if not to insult or upset.

"Yup," Don said. "Even with the latest lasers, we'll never look the same. It's going to cost thousands to remove 'em."

Charlie adjusted his sling. "I'd show you mine but I'm too wrapped up in this harness."

"Never mind," Larry said. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

Don had scooted forward and was unbuttoning his shirt, now slipped it off his shoulder.

Larry got up, studied Don's back while Charlie fluffed his pillow, turned and watched them.

"Does it hurt?" Larry asked, wrinkling his nose.

Don shrugged, tried peeking over his shoulder: The skin was peeling and the colors were uneven. Around the perimeter of the gaudy crown, redness indicated an infection, successfully healing with meds.

"It's uncomfortable," Charlie answered. "Mine was infected, too."

The doorbell rang and Alan popped in from the kitchen, went to get it.

"What will happen to the girl?" Larry said. "There'll be a trial I assume."

Don re-buttoned his shirt. "All that's up in the air, but they're talking plea bargain. I think Jacobi, Katherine—whatever—and the other three know pretty much a trial's a tough sell. Especially against the testimonies from both Charlie and me."

Larry added, "I suppose those tattoos would be enough to convince a jury."

"Exactly…and nothing happened between her and me, by the way," Charlie said, raising his head towards a familiar voice.

"Agent Don! Dr. Charlie!" Fitzgerald strolled in cheerfully with Alan beside him. He was carrying two potted rose plants and Alan carried a third. Smiles spread across Don's and Charlie's faces.

Fitzy and Alan set the pots on the coffee table and Don got up, gave his old cell mate an extended hug. Charlie wasn't yet able to get up easily so Fitz knelt beside the couch and leaned in for a half-hug, tousled his locks like a kid's.

"You're both looking fit as lions," he said, rising crookedly. "Amazing what a shower and a shave can do." He motioned to the plants. "I've brought you these, from Anne's sister's bush. More of my wife's legacy. To remember me by."

Don admired the peach and lavender buds, on the verge of blossoming. "Uh-uh. You're not getting away that fast. You said you and Dad would have lots to talk about. Stick around for dinner before you go back to building."

"I'd like that," he said. "And I told you, I'm not an architect anymore."

"You sure about that?" Don patted him on the back. "I think you're a brilliant one."

Fitzy winked, graciously accepted the compliment. "But if I stay," he said. "I'd like to skip the apple pie, if you don't mind."

Don and Charlie wholeheartedly agreed.

**---7---**

The next day, Charlie prepared to try out his A.M. legs. The morning was the worst, not just because he was in a hurry to get to the little boy's room, but because sleeping with a bad back and a clipped wing was frustrating. If you wanted to turn to your side, you couldn't; turn to your stomach, no way; lift a leg and hold it there, out of luck, hurts. The urge to change position and get more comfortable was ever-present, but he had to ignore it and go back to sleep. If something fell to the floor, forget it. If the water glass was too far away, call for help.

And so he did; it was Don who came this time and got him out of bed. Standing, Charlie let his vertebrae and muscles settle in for a couple of minutes before taking his first step.

"Better?" Don said.

He hobbled out with his cane. "I'll tell you if I see you again." Moments later, Charlie had succeeded, returning from the washroom faster than the previous day. "Not as painful as yesterday."

Later that morning, nearly noon, a car drove up. Don's team had been busy with the investigation: tying up loose ends and interviewing the perpetrators; gathering and saving evidence at the crime scene; figuring out the sequence of events and filling out the mountains of paperwork and copy after copy which every assignment required.

Their visit was brief and they brought chocolates, a basket of fruit. Charlie, sitting up a little, spied the apples right away. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to eat one again.

David and Colby—no matter how many times Don told them otherwise—continued to feel bad not only because Charlie had been wounded in the crossfire but because they hadn't found them faster, gotten them out.

"You did your best," Don said. "Followed procedures the best way we know how in our business. The way I would've done it. I couldn't have asked for more."

Colby and David looked to each other as though they weren't buying it. "We're glad things turned out all right," Colby said. He was seated at the end of the bed and shyly picked at a speck of fluff on the covers. "Charlie?"

Charlie was puzzled. "Me?" he said, thinking it over. He wasn't quite sure what Colby meant, what he wanted from him. There was an awkward pause then he broke the silence; the answer was plain: "I don't blame you. It's the farthest thing from my mind." He searched Colby's face, hoping to make him feel better. "You guys saved my life. And Don's. I'll never forget that."

"Thanks," they both said, almost in tandem. Then David added, "You're worth saving," with a playful grin.

They hung around awhile longer and while Charlie flicked on the TV, Don showed them out downstairs. After forty minutes of endless talk shows and commercials had passed, he began to wonder where Don had gone off to. He called for his father, remembering he'd gone out on errands. Bored, he touched his brow, peeled off the bandage and took a peek at it in the mirror across the room. It was hard to see from this distance but appeared to be mending well.

Don had been quiet during the visit from his colleagues and Charlie wondered what could be troubling him. There wasn't much Don could hide from his all-knowing brother unless he outright lied, and even then, well, Charlie always knew when something didn't feel right with Don. It was a fraternal connection that never failed to make contact whether either of them wanted it to or not.

**---8---**

At the front door, Don finally waved good-bye to his team after all four had gotten caught up in shop-talk and spent several minutes chatting on the doorstep. He reassured them—reassured himself—that he'd be back to work soon. _I should be with them. _But until he'd fully recovered, he wouldn't be. He lacked stamina, felt sore in every muscle and had a wimpy appetite. The nights were distressing, disrupted by gloomy images of their ordeal. At least he was out of the hospital, away from the invasive machines and fishbowl existence. No one was telling him what to do anymore.

He felt tired, sat on the stoop, drinking in the sun's rays, trying to regain a drop of serenity by indulging in the greenery, the trees and plants in Pop's front yard. Charlie's house, yeah, Charlie's house, but Dad's and Mom's forever and ever. Our house forever. Lot of memories here. Some of them hurt.

_Enough indulgence, Eppes. _

He returned to Charlie, who'd drifted into a snooze with the TV on. He'd promised to bring him a drink from the kitchen and as he placed the glass on the nightstand, he noticed Charlie wincing in his sleep, lips moving as though re-enacting a haunting scene. The cut on his brow was bare and Don viewed it for the first time. It was larger than he'd expected it to be, about two inches, black, blue and swollen, and it stood out amongst the other cuts sprinkled on his face. Charlie's wrists, like his own, were bandaged with gauze and his shot-up arm lay on a pillow, supported at the elbow.

Charlie appeared comfortable, yet uncomfortable. _Or is it me who's uncomfortable?_ Last year, his little brother had struggled with doubts over shooting Reylott—more specifically, _killing_ Reylott—and had experienced a breakdown of the serious sort. The alleged Reylott sightings had gotten to him; he'd started to think he was seeing Rey everywhere but Don had told him no, he's dead, it can't be, the Bureau's checked it out. Even Jacobi's entrance and departure from their lives hadn't changed Don's mind. Charlie had trusted his big brother, trusted the FBI and their expertise, the whole system. Don had failed him, and there he was—battered all over again by men and women alike. Earlier, Charlie had confided in him about Jacobi, how she hadn't succeeded in her eugenics project, but had gotten close.

"How close, Charlie?" he'd asked, when Alan had interrupted them and Charlie clammed up, reluctant to speak in front of their father.

_Failed, I failed. How could I have been so wrong? What'd I miss? I was busy—on that bank robbery case, the kidnapping case, the what-does-it-matter case. I still missed it. A memo came across my desk, didn't it? And I ignored it or it got buried somewhere or deleted from my e-mail by accident or there were too many to read through. Because I had to go to lunch or was thinking of my date for the night or wasn't paying attention. _

_Because I was so fucking sure of myself. _

_Charlie…I made you promise not to compromise with Jacobi but that was unfair to you, too. I've screwed up everything and look what happened to you, to me, everyone we love. My fault. If I hadn't dismissed the numerous sightings of Reylott. Hell, they kept filing in months after he was shot. No, he's dead, I told you; he couldn't have survived. I was so positive. I should've known better. Arrogance, pure arrogance. Why didn't I think twice? Why? _

"I gotta' get out of here," he said aloud, and in the next second realized he couldn't leave Charlie to fend for himself. He wanted to go home, be alone, think things out. _Run away?_ Don Eppes doesn't run away when someone needs him. Walking out, he gently shut the door behind him, and headed to the garage.

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	9. Gardener

**Chapter Nine: _Gardener_**

**---1---**

The drink was refreshing. Charlie put the glass down and rolled to his side, inches at a time, surprised to see he'd been asleep for over an hour and hadn't heard Don come into the room or shut the door.

He'd had a tangible dream—more a reflection of a recent visit from Amita so that when he'd first awakened he wondered whether it was just a dream or if it had actually happened. The day he'd come home from the hospital, Amita had come by in the early evening while he'd lain in bed, groggy and not wanting to move for the soreness in every fiber. He'd been looking up at her, said a few words about being happy she'd dropped by, when she'd reached towards his head and he'd scooted away on the pillow and blocked her hand with his forearm.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," she'd said, apparently upset that something was amiss, and she'd asked what Reylott had done to him to make him so jumpy. Charlie had considered telling her but held back, still too tired to share any details, not sure how much he cared to reveal. He'd simply told her he didn't mean to alarm her and explained that as Reylott's prisoners, he and Don had never known from second to second if they'd be alive or dead. He'd known from the expression on Amita's face that the explanation wasn't good enough, but she'd accepted it. If the subject were to come up again—and if he was ever prepared to tell—she would be ready to listen. It was one of her gifts.

Charlie rubbed his eyes and called for Don, expecting a reply. "Anybody home?" he said. "I could use some help here." Nothing. _I guess Don's bored with acting as waiter_. He tossed back the covers and lowered his legs carefully, using his left elbow for support at the same time, trying to right himself in one smooth motion. It didn't work, so bit by bit, he raised himself up and sat at the edge of the bed, pausing for the pain to pass. _Without pills, I'd feel it a lot more. I'd also feel less foggy in the head. _

He shook off the drowsiness. "Don!" he yelled, but no one showed up. From the bedside, he grabbed his cane, considered calling on the cell phone. _No. I'm going to do this; the pills have made me lazy, too. _He straightened up, started forward, taking baby steps, finding he did okay until he got to the stairwell and peered down to the bottom, which was about three thousand feet deeper than it had been his whole life. He asked for Don again, looked back to see if he might pop out of his room, then eased his foot onto the first step.

It hurt. It was also daunting; he couldn't hold on without the cane getting in the way. Step by step, he descended and stopped, descended and stopped, eventually reached the bottom, somewhat out of breath and worried he'd aggravated his back. _Too late now. _

"Don?" The ground floor was vacant, serene. "Dad?" He wandered into the kitchen, noticed a couple of discarded beer bottles on top of the trash. He yearned for a snack and opened the frig, heard a raking noise drift in from outdoors. At the rear of the house, he peered out, searching for the source of the sound from the window. The bushes jiggled and he craned his neck, stepped sideways to get a better look. Don was on his knees in the garden, weeding.

Charlie was bewildered. His brother had never shown an interest in gardening before and this was absolutely not the time to take it up, when he was still suffering the aftereffects of fever. Going out, he shuffled up the pathway, careful to place the cane's tip on level surfaces.

"Don," he said. "What are you doing? You shouldn't be working out here like this, you're not all well yet. The doctor told you to take it easy."

"I'm fine." He pressed on with his task, tweaking weeds and tossing them out, over and to either side of his head. He'd worked up a thin sweat in the direct sun and it highlighted the cuts, bruises and thorn scratches that peppered his face and arms.

Charlie said, "It's warm out here."

"I planted those roses from Fitz." He leaned back on his heels and pointed to the fence. "Look good there, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know." Charlie took two steps towards them. "Shouldn't they be farther from the fence?"

"Nah, they're beautiful." He'd gone to the next flowerbed. "Crap, there's another one," he said, and resumed his weeding. "I keep missing them. Every time I turn around there's another damned weed."

Something wasn't normal. Don was too obsessed with his damned weeds for it to be normal. "Don." Charlie stepped nearer, trying to get his attention. "Don. Those aren't weeds, that's ground cover."

He stretched, yanked a stem from a planter. "There's another one."

"Would you quit that, please?"

"What is it with these? They're everywhere. I've gone over this same place three times. Here's…I missed this bunch, too. Where do they come from?" He'd crawled under the Morning Glory bushes on his knees, their purple blooms swaying in the intermittent breeze. "I must be blind. I overlooked this patch, too, right under my nose."

"Don…come out of there. You're destroying our garden. I told you that's _ground cover._"

He waved a handful back and forth. "This? These aren't ground cover."

"Well, I'm sure you have some weeds but most isn't." He scanned the driveway. "Where's Dad? He come home yet?"

"Running late."

A balled-up wad of green flew past Charlie and landed in a heap at his feet. "Stop that! Trust me, it's ground cover. Can't you tell the difference?"

Don snapped. "You think I can't? Go in, I don't need you out here."

"I wanted something to eat."

"Go ahead, get it started." He was on all-fours, the top of his head poking over the branches. "I'll be in in awhile. I just have to get what I missed."

"It's a little hard for me, last time I spilled soup on Dad."

Don sat upright, his index finger pointed upwards. "Your bandage, Dad said we need to change it. I forgot." With that, he sprung up, threw the last handful into a planter and began to fuss with Charlie's sling.

Charlie hooked the cane on his forearm. "What're you doing?"

"Taking it off." The Velcro strap zipped apart and Don tugged to remove it.

"Out here? Can't we go inside?" He pulled away; Don had jostled him too roughly. "Ow…no."

"Fine, we'll go inside. I gotta' wash up, anyway." He refastened the strap. "Sorry, I didn't mean to...I'll finish this later," he said, going to the house. "Get the weeds I missed."

Charlie called after him, asked if he was all right and watched him go in, slam the door. He surveyed the garden, the flowerbeds. All along the pathway, clumps of ground cover littered the flagstone. Despite what he claimed, Don hadn't missed much. Balancing himself, he toddled back to the house and discovered Don had re-disappeared. He'd just begun to head for the stairwell when from upstairs, Don yelled for him to get his bones up there.

Charlie hung onto the stair posts. "Are you mad at me?" he said, feeling a spasm. He needed to lie down or sit, soon.

At the top, Don stuck his head out. "Of course not, get up here."

"You know I can't without help." He winced. "I barely made it down."

"Yeah, I…I'll be right there."

Shortly, he arrived carrying the first aid kit. "Sit," he said, and Charlie complied. On the couch, they cautiously slipped off the sling and removed Charlie's robe.

With a cushion for a pillow, Charlie reclined flat on the couch to rest his back and studied Don as he sat on the edge, unwrapping the old bandage: His eyes were red, narrow, with lines etched across his forehead like fine groves. When he took out the scissors, he dropped them, cursed under his breath, and snatched them up with a huff. "Don, what's wrong?"

He measured a length of gauze, set it aside. "Nothing. I'm great."

"I'll ask Dad if you won't say."

"Tattle?" Using cotton, Don dabbed ointment on Charlie's entry and exit wounds. "I thought you were over that."

_I'm going to get it out of you this time._ "You don't like gardening."

"I've never said that…lift you arm." He gently slipped a small pillow under it and held the gauze in place, began to wrap. "You're healing nicely."

"Is there anything to tattle _about_?" Charlie said. His arm ached intensely within, something he'd been told to expect. "Careful…"

"Sorry," Don said. "You all right?"

"Yeah, just get it done."

He continued, taking greater care. "Why don't you finish your story," he said. "About Jacobi."

_The story. _They'd been so busy…it was simpler to ban it from his thoughts. And better to forget. Now that the authorities had taken his statement, his account of the crime, the abduction, the first day in the tower, the second day…all set out in chronological order, everything told…or not. _No lies, just withheld, kept private._ Why should it bother me? I'm a big boy, I can handle it. That feeling of revulsion and violation will go away, right? I'll be good in a day or two or three or more. After all, I'd been groggy that night, when she came and…

"What'd she do?" Don said. "You told Larry nothing happened."

"That's true, we never…never went all the way but she…."

The lines on Don's forehead softened. "It's okay."

"She took advantage. Went too far." His eyes were riveted to the ceiling. Above him, there was an old brass hook that had been installed by the previous owners which he'd always intended to get rid of. "My clothes," he said. "She…."

"I get it." He tucked the gauze in lightly. "She was all over you."

"If I hadn't been injured," Charlie said. "It would've happened. But I didn't want it."

Don picked up the tape, asked if Jacobi had hurt him.

"Yes." He sighed and felt sad, remembering how vulnerable he'd been. "She did. My dignity, you know?"

"We were trapped," he said, and tore off a piece of tape, secured the bandage in place.

Charlie stared at the hook. It seemed to belong to the house after all these years. _Was that all he was going to say?_

Don leaned over him, picked up a wrapper from the cushion. "Hey buddy," he said, and paused, touched Charlie's chest. "Look at me."

It was difficult. He turned from the old hook, blankly stared at his feet for a moment then met Don's eyes.

"Remember," Don said. "There weren't any solutions, only trade-offs. You did what you had to do."

"And I feel used, like a paper plate at a picnic."

"I know. It'll get better." He put the scissors away. "And she'll pay for it. Still considered an assault, you know, doesn't matter it's a woman."

"But you're the only one who knows."

"What?" Don had begun to gather scraps from the floor and quit, the lines reappearing on his forehead. "Charlie, our agents need to know everything so the D.A. can—"

"I know, I know," Charlie said. "I just couldn't."

As if suddenly uneasy, Don shut the first aid box and hurriedly got up. "I'm not going to force you to tell. I won't mention it."

Charlie watched him set the box on the sideboard. "Thank you," he said, realizing whatever was bugging Don had come back to re-bother him. "You're mad at me, aren't you?" he said. "Because I tried to bargain with Jacobi when I promised I wouldn't."

Don was shaking his head. "No, no…don't think that. You're good with me there. I had no idea you'd be injured. When a situation gets to that point, promises get thrown out the window."

Relieved, Charlie let out a long breath although he still didn't know what was going on in Don's brain. As for Jacobi, he was grateful the intrusion on his person hadn't gone further. A lengthy incarceration for her was the best he could hope for. Men weren't supposed to mind the amorous attentions of a lovely woman but in this type of situation Charlie knew the reality: It was a fallacy, an insensitive one. As Fitzy had said, exactly on point: No one likes being locked up, forced into slavery.

The front door flew open and their father entered, juggling bags of groceries. Don immediately offered to help bring in the rest of the food and Alan declined, saying he shouldn't exert himself. But Don stepped out anyway, said he'd be right back and could use a little exercise.

Alan put the bags on the dining room table. "Don't carry anything heavy," he advised him, asked Charlie how he was.

"I'm good." He kept his voice low. "But Don's acting weird. He's upset about something. Won't say. Not to me anyway."

Alan checked over his shoulder before he replied. "I'll talk to him," he said. "I think I know what it is."

**---2---**

Don finished bringing in the bags and felt his stamina wane with the second trip. His father must have noticed him slump into a kitchen chair because he insisted he go upstairs, nap. He gave it a shot, couldn't sleep and got up, returned to the garden. It was sundown, cooler and less overcast than it'd been earlier, and the humidity had dropped. He picked out a broom from the shed, swept weeds and leaves in the pathway into several growing piles. As he swept, he spotted another crop of weeds beneath the vines in a wide-rimmed terra cotta planter and threw down the broom, crouched to pluck them out and into a new pile.

His back was to the house when his father called out: "Don. You shouldn't be doing that. It's too soon."

"I'm going home tomorrow, Dad," he said, not turning round. "Will you drive me?"

"I think you should stay a few more days. Charlie said—"

_Tattle-tale_. "I'm fine."

"Did I say you weren't fine? Although emptying my garden of every last bit of ground cover isn't exactly convincing me."

Don said, "This isn't the ground."

"But that _is_ my cover—and my planter." Alan came over, knelt beside him. "You're pale. Come inside, I'll fix you something to eat."

"Dad, Charlie needs you."

"Your brother's fine, he took his pills. He's on the phone with Larry, speaking a foreign language—well, is to a non-genius." Alan stood, flexed his leg then stretched it out. "Have you seen the mallet of guilt lately?" he said, and scanned the area, hand on his chin. "I'm thinking of getting rid of it."

Spindly vines spilled over the planter's rim and Don ripped the dry leaves from their stems. _It's my issue…I'll deal with it myself._

"Charlie confided," Alan said. "He's told me about the woman."

"He was trying to stall her. It was the only card we had to play." _A hazardous game, filled with inexcusable consequences._ "I didn't think it through."

Alan said, "You were in no condition to."

"I know. But I didn't intend for him to get…misused."

"It was my decision." Charlie had joined them, coming slowly up the path. "I had to do something. I just didn't know what it would require of me."

"If I'd been smarter…" Don pulled out a cluster of dried leaves, crushed them in his fist. "…before Reylott ambushed us. If I hadn't been so sure of myself."

"You feel bad you didn't catch Rey before all this?" Charlie cinched up his sling. "No one could've, we thought he was dead."

"That's where I screwed up." _What good is experience if you can't get it right?_

Alan picked up the broom. "It made sense at the time."

"That's right." Charlie said. "Everything pointed to his demise."

"Donny, you need to forgive yourself."

"I will if Charlie will, Dad." _You're the people I'm supposed to protect._

At the planter, Charlie lowered himself to the rim to sit. "I don't need to forgive you," he said. "I'm not the one blaming you, you're the one blaming you. There're no solutions, right? Only trade-offs."

The sun had retired below the horizon and the sky glowed a satiny peach. Don rose, kicked a tangled tuft of plants into one of his piles and rubbed the shrinking knot on the back of his head. Was it was time to begin trading-off something he couldn't change for something he could change: forgiving himself for being human, for making a mistake?

Alan handed him the broom. "How about trading the mallet of guilt for the paper mallet of guilt? It'll hurt a lot less."

"Or the plastic mallet of guilt," Charlie said.

"Or cardboard," their father added.

Charlie braced his cane and stood, moving stiffly. "How 'bout a Post-it note?"

"All right, I get the message," he said, and broke a smile. They'd made him laugh. But inside he fought with a feeling, one that condemned him, that insisted he go on being hard on himself, go on denying himself food and rest and drive himself into the ground—almost literally—since he'd done something that couldn't be set right, couldn't be fixed. _Punish yourself, Eppes, and...what? Will it change anything? _He shoved the feeling aside, shut it out and headed towards the another feeling, the one that agreed with Dad and Charlie; and, for the first time since their abduction, he considered that perhaps _Un-special_ Agent Don might deserve a chance to regain his position as_ Special_ Agent Don. If his family was willing to keep believing in him, he'd allow himself the benefit of a doubt, time to deal with it. _They couldn't both be wrong, could they?_ "I'm hungry," he said, before he could change his mind, fearing he would. "What's for dinner?"

"Good," Alan said. "Because we don't want you to relapse. Now—who owes us ground cover?"

Don looked around him. _What have I done?_ "It'll grow back," he said, and, taking Charlie's elbow, guided him toward the house, steering him round the piles of what was supposed to be weeds.

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	10. Waxicles

**Chapter Ten: _Waxicles_**

**---1---**

It was grim, definitely macabre, but Don and Charlie both required _habeas corpus_; in this case, photographs of Reylott's final fate: bloodied and sprawled in a pile of rubble. Jacobi, aka Katherine, had really lost her brother this time. Charlie's heart was big; he found himself feeling sorry for her son John. Don told him he'd be disappointed if his little brother didn't feel for the boy who'd been born into a very wrong family.

As expected, Reylott's gang pled out after the D.A. applied pressure, persuaded them to give in; there would be no trials. Neither Charlie nor Don would have to retell their story as they had more than once to authorities, or be subjected to public testimony and scrutiny. There was one piece of bad news: Jacobi had exchanged a tell-all deal with the D.A. against her co-defendants which reduced her sentence by several years. Whether she would tell-all about what she'd done to Charlie he didn't know, but he had a feeling she would skimp on the details of her own bad behavior and ratchet up the ones about her companions.

As for their health, both brothers submitted themselves to additional medical tests to insure there was no organ damage from the chemical exposure or infection from the needles. The results were negative. Once given a clean bill of health, Don was happy and relieved to return to work and was treated to a welcome back surprise party, complete with cake and gifts.

Charlie's arm and back healed steadily and he also returned to work at the university, his arm in a sling. He was greeted enthusiastically and after the informal reception in his office wound down, he had a chance to talk with Amita who lingered on the computer after everyone left, bringing up an important departmental memo she said Charlie would want to see.

"It's nice to have things back to normal," he said, shuffling a stack of files, getting his desk in order. "Well, after I sweep up this confetti."

Amita turned to him. "Here," she said, getting up. "You have some in your…" She'd been set to brush bits of confetti out of his hair but cut her words short, looking uneasy. "Sorry, I…"

"No, it's all right," he said, asking her where the bits were. She reached up, gave his locks little shakes on the sides and top and confetti sprinkled to the floor, some of the red, blue and gold dots dropping into Charlie's sling.

She went back to the computer. "Here's the memo," she said, motioning him over.

Quickly, he read it over her shoulder then walked towards the window, a file still in hand. "I'd like to clarify something," he said. "I didn't tell you everything…haven't really been able to talk to anyone about it except Dad and Don. Even Larry doesn't know. It's somewhat embarrassing."

Amita closed the computer, swiveled the chair round to face him. "Why you were so jumpy the other day?"

Charlie flashed a smile, got serious again. "Yeah. I wasn't expecting that. I mean, you're just you, you're Amita."

"But it bothered you."

"Yes," he said "Because of Jacobi, the way we were treated."

"Charlie, you don't have to talk about it if—"

"No. I owe you an apology," he said, shutting the door. "And I sort of feel the need to talk about it with someone outside the family."

She flashed her own brief semi-smile. "Sometimes that helps."

"It does." _Too nervous…maybe I should keep my mouth shut. Relax—she'll understand._ With the file, he brushed pieces of confetti from his shoulder and glanced at her. She'd leaned forward in the chair, knees together, palms on her knees and elbows straight, patiently waiting for him to go on. Her dark eyes seemed safe and empathetic, accepting of whatever he might say. Inside them, peace awaited him. He paced past her, put the file down on the tabletop.

She put out her hand, hung her fingertips in his. "What did she do to you, Charlie?"

_There_. She'd broken the ice and now he could fall through. Not into a freezing lake, but into those peaceful eyes. "A guy's not supposed to mind, but…"

"But you're struggling with it, whatever it is."

He gently let go of her fingers, pressed a fist to his lips then went on. "When it happens to a woman, there's no doubt in anyone's mind, it's wrong through and through. The woman's the weaker one, it's always wrong for a man to take advantage. With guys, people have their own notions about it. Do you see?"

"You were hurt, you were physically weaker."

"True. That was the case," he said. "I tried to resist. It wasn't any use. At first, I thought I could help Don, make a deal with her." He stood by the window; the sky was cloudless, pristine. "The other day, when you visited, I wouldn't let you touch me because for a second…for an instant I thought I was back at the castle, and that you were her and she was…"

"Going to hurt you again?"

He watched a jogger run across the lawn. "And intrude…touch me."

Amita sat back, supported on the armrests. "I had no idea."

"If you don't mind," he said, going to her. "I know you wouldn't anyway, but, I'd prefer you keep this to yourself?"

"I wish you wouldn't be embarrassed," she said. "You did nothing wrong. She did."

"Please?"

She nodded, promised it would always stay between them.

"Thanks." _It's going to be all right._ "I knew you'd get it."

**---2---**

When the brothers were sufficiently recovered, the tattoos were removed by a specialist. After undergoing several treatments, the last of the ink was erased and whatever pigment remained would be naturally removed by their bodies' scavenger cells. They were left with a slight discoloration and a change in the texture of skin which would improve over time. Now that the marks were gone, Don and Charlie could look in the mirror without reliving every second of their captivity in a glance. They could begin to heal inside as well as outside.

When they were emotionally prepared (as well as they could be), Don and Charlie decided there was an important place they needed to revisit. So, on a Saturday morning, they met early and boxed up their anxieties, got directions from Fitz and embarked on the two-hour trip. They'd asked if he wanted to go, but he'd declined, said he'd gone back twice already. With help, he'd had several of Anne's neglected rose bushes rooted up to transplant to his home.

Charlie and Don thought that'd been a brave thing to do. But it was Fitz, so not so surprising.

The terrain was rockier and hillier than they recalled. The night of their rescue, they'd been evacuated in the dark on stretchers and had seen very little, flying out in a helicopter. A gravelly road diverged from the main route and wound up into a mountain then down again to a small valley, growing flat and rising once more until they came over a large hill to the castle-house in the distance, built on a terraced foundation, the plateau rising to the west.

They parked the car under the long-dead tree and surveyed the area which had been encircled by yellow police tape, ripped and scattered by the winds. They walked and talked, finding the spot where Don had been nabbed and pointing out several places where agents had been stationed during the raid. At the side of the house, they came upon the secret entrance to the room where Don had hidden for a day. Since Fitzy had been there to harvest them, fewer plants blocked the entryway while the FBI had also sliced a portion away to gain access in the aftermath. Charlie belly-crawled under the bushes, avoiding weight on his still-achy arm, and discovered the small portal on the other side was uncovered. He wiggled in, asked Don if he was coming in, too.

Don was skittish, but prodded himself to proceed. They stood together in the small space with their flashlights aimed at the floor and stairs. Not much was left. Even the apple core and water had been collected. Nothing to fear here. Still, Don felt edgy and ascended the steps, showing Charlie which way he and Fitzy had come after their escape.

"Are you okay with this?" Charlie said. "If not we can go around the other way."

Don kept going. "I'm okay if you are, buddy."

"Then onward."

Together, they ascended the stairs to the shorter tower and peeked out the panel-door in the fireplace hearth, checking out the room. The parapet walkway was hazardous and could no longer be crossed so from that point they turned back and retraced their steps. Exiting the portal, they headed through the front door—unlockable now that it'd been busted to splinters by the FBI—and walked down the extended hallway with the pointed windows. At this time of day, the house was well-lit and when they approached the most-despised room, they halted in the archway, looked at each other and entered warily.

It was benign. A room with a wooden table, counter and shelves. Exposed rafters. Water-rotted walls and floors and pieces of cord littering the floor. All innocuous, yet disturbing.

"I can still smell it," Don said. "That sweetness. Turns my stomach."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

From under the table, Don picked up a piece of cord, showed it to Charlie. "Souvenir?"

Charlie took it, curled it round his index finger three times. "Some things we don't need to remember," he said, and threw it away. "What's going to happen to this place?" he said, and inspected the counter where Blue had worked, Reylott had sat. Everything had been gathered, taken away, but globs of candle wax marred the counter, ingrained in the wood.

"It'll be razed. But not until the case is officially closed."

Going out, they both hesitated in the archway.

"Funny how it draws you," Charlie said. "Yet you don't want to look."

Don took the lead down the hallway. "Or stay."

"Exactly."

From there, they cut through the courtyard and to the kitchen where Charlie got a look at the spot on the floor where he'd been dumped and left to languish. And on the wall beneath the dumbwaiter, bloody handprints remained where he'd touched following the crash. A strong desire to move on overcame him and he quickly turned to leave, Don right behind him.

They strolled back, up to the main tower. The stairs were as wonky as ever, their edges as crumbly as ever. At the top, the door was open and they peeked into the chamber. Before entering, they noticed the boards on the window had been removed, glass shutters still intact. The mattress was gone but the sun's heat had sucked the moisture from the floors and walls. It was as barren as the other rooms.

Don entered first. "Everything okay?" he said. Charlie was lagging outside the threshold.

"Don't hurry me." He thumped his fist on the doorjamb, stepped in. "I keep getting this feeling someone's going to run up and lock the door behind us."

"Yeah," Don said. "Me, too."

From there, they descended and examined the area where Reylott had met his maker. Unlike the photos, it was now merely a pile of debris with charcoal stains on the floor and split beams, plaster and nails strewn about for several feet.

Charlie backed away, nearly tripped over a two-by-four. "Other room's that way."

"You sure you want to go there?"

"No," he said. "But I'm going."

Crossing the hallways silently, they arrived in Jacobi's room. The disheveled antique bed seemed untouched and red candle wax had dripped onto the tabletop, spilling over the side as thin waxicles. Even without its previous occupant's possessions, the room felt cold to Charlie, inducing an almost superstitious chill which slinked down his neck like a spider.

Don stayed in the doorway, watched Charlie break off the waxicles then circle the bed and peer into the tubular skylight. "How's it going?"

"It's over," Charlie said, hand on the bedpost. "Ready to go when you are."

"I don't want to hurry you."

He rushed out past him. "There's nothing to be done here."

Don let him go and lingered in the room. Like the rest of the house, it appeared harmless enough, could almost be cozy if it were cleaned up, soft sunlight tempering the roughness in the brownstone. He knew better. This was where the worst memories were for Charlie, where he'd felt the most helpless, despairing. But Don was confident Charlie would recover; he was already doing a good job dealing with it—he was tougher than he gave himself credit for and gradually, he'd put this into perspective, leave it to the past along with Reylott.

Exiting, he returned to the front of the house and discovered Charlie in the back seat of the car, digging through a gym bag.

He lifted out an object. "Dad suggested this. Kind of a symbolic gesture. Although I'm not into this sort of thing, I don't see how it could hurt." He stepped out of the car, handed the object to Don. "After all, there are a few things I might not know."

"A mallet?" Don said, confused. "Not more of this junk. I thought we'd talked it out."

"Dad says closure, Dad says, why not? Dad says don't knock it till you've tried it."

"Enough. I don't want to hear about your midnight schemes." He cradled Charlie's hand in his, plopped the mallet in his palm. "Let's get out of here," he said, taking out his car keys. "Ridiculous."

"All right." Charlie threw the gym bag over his shoulder. "I'll bury it for you," he said, and marched towards the house.

"Bury it?" Don said. "Get back here! You're supposed to bury hatchets, not mallets."

Charlie had passed the yellow tape and was ascending a terraced ramp. Next to the front door, he took a shovel out of the bag and began to dig up the topsoil under a burly bush.

Back at the car, Don refused to fall for the mumbo-jumbo, mumbling a protest. This sort of goofiness was for women and TV shows. "Charlie, let's get out of here, it's getting hot," he said, sipping water. But Charlie never turned around, just calmly ignored him. He shook his head, got into the car and idled it, cranked up the A/C. While biding his time, he tuned into the radio and sang along, a little off-key. In ten minutes, Charlie reappeared and ditched his pack on the floorboard.

"So you did it?" Don said, turning down the radio.

"Done deal."

_Little brothers. Smug brothers. So sure of themselves. Mallet of guilt, mallet of paper, mallet of cotton candy._ "Someone's going to get a mallet for their birthday."

"I'm just doing Dad a favor, that's all. He went through a lot for us, you know. When we disappeared, can you imagine how it must've been for him? It's a miracle he didn't collapse from the stress. He told me you needed to get the blame out of your brain once and for all and suggested a minor gesture to bring everything out in the open."

Don said, "I don't blame myself anymore."

"True? Good. Because last time he talked to you, you worried him." Charlie leaned in to whisper. "Said you'd had too many beers."

"Dad worries too much."

"Maybe. He has to worry for mom, too," Charlie said. "But it's okay, it's done, don't trouble yourself over it. You didn't want to so I've done it for him. It's just not quite what Dad had in mind, that's all."

Don gripped the steering wheel. "Yeah, well, his idea and your idea of symbolism are different from mine," he said, and shut off the ignition. Getting out, he slammed the door closed and headed to the house. At the burly bush, with Charlie observing, he knelt where the topsoil had been broken up and dug into the loosened soil with his hands. About a foot down, he reclaimed the mallet, brushed it off. "I hate you," he said to it. "The ground's too good for you."

"What do you intend to do?" Charlie said, trailing him to the field beneath the tower. "Smash something?"

"You bet I'm gonna' smash something." Don had a bounce in his stride. At the base of the tower, he gazed up, estimated the distance to the window, moving forward and backwards to gauge it. The window was high; he had one chance to hit it.

Charlie stayed out of the way. "It's pretty far. I can help you with that."

"I don't need math," he asserted. "I still got it, it's instinct for me." But Charlie persisted, came to the conclusion Don would have to be standing twenty to twenty-two point five feet for maximum efficiency.

"Shhhh…" Don said, and warmed up his arm, the mallet revolving in circles through the air. "Quiet. This is for Dad, for brother there and…"

"Fitzy."

"Fitzgerald, the not-so-old man…" he said, quoting a name with each revolution, "And me." Stopping, he flexed his arm, raised it, pulled back and aimed.

Charlie stood back; Don pitched. The mallet spun upwards, handle to head, and shattered through the panes with a quick, keen clunk.

"Bravo!" Charlie clapped, patting him on the back. "Encore."

Don's grin made tiny peepholes of his eyes. "How's that for symbolic?" he said, and told Charlie their father was right—Dad's more than a survivor, he's a thriver.

**---3---**

Whether the symbolism of the mallet had done Don any good he didn't immediately know exactly, but what else could he expect from his father—a man who'd come of age in the turmoil and weirdness of the sixties? If it pleased Pop, it pleased him and that was enough in light of the suffering Dad had endured during their captivity. He deserved to be thanked and listened to, maybe humored a little, too. Mallets. _What next. _

Over the weeks, Charlie came to accept there was no shame in what had happened to him; he'd had no control over what Jacobi had subjected him to and he decided not to make a statement to authorities about the assault. Revealed or not, his father told him it'd been a noble thing to do to save his brother. Charlie didn't quite feel noble but he was proud that in the end he'd fought back although he'd had no chance of winning, persevering in the face of absolute defeat. He'd mined a power inside him that he never knew he possessed before Reylott had come into their lives. The power to go on.

Don came to accept he'd had no control while imprisoned in the tower or over his limitations. He'd been wrong about Reylott because evidence had indicated nothing was amiss. It took time before he could look at Charlie without remembering what his brother had gone through for him. What a guy, he'd think to himself, that's my little brother—he never gave up. Seems Charlie would make a great FBI Agent. But Don was pleased he was merely a brilliant mathematician because together they were an outstanding team, with their father as informal advisor.

Still, although he'd mostly made peace with it, in future Don figured he would always keep an iota of doubt in his mind in case what appeared to be a worthless clue might lead to something worthwhile. It wasn't good to get too comfortable in your job. He'd thought he'd known this from years of experience, but learned he had to be less dismissive, definitely sharper.

He wouldn't be letting himself off the hook too easily; that didn't make for a better Agent Don, a son, or brother. Because in all relationships, there were no pat answers. Just when you thought you had it right and everything appeared to be going wonderfully, something else came around to knock you back a step or two—or on your ass.

So, he figured there was a daily deal you made with yourself to set yourself aside time to time—put aside a bit of pride or identity or that persistent need to knock yourself on the head—for the sake of getting along, and to keep those whom you valued around you. If he hit it right, got the right balance between _me and thee_, those people would not only be around for a long time, but the passing years with them would be good. There'd be growth within him and he'd be all the better for it.

One more trade-off for want of a solution.

_---The End---_


End file.
